


It's Like the Sun Came Out

by Fionakevin073



Category: The Sunne in Splendour - Sharon Kay Penman, The White Queen (TV)
Genre: Angst, Death, F/M, Love, Mythology - Freeform, Trojan War AU, War, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2019-06-14 16:43:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 79,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15393030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fionakevin073/pseuds/Fionakevin073
Summary: “You’re wrong,” she said quietly. Tears trickled down her face. “This isn’t you, Richard. It isn’t. I won’t let a war start because of me. Our love is —“ she took a deep breath, as though she were trying to find the courage to speak. “Our love is wrong.”Richard grabbed her hand, the one that was positioned on her lap, and gently placed it over his heart. He could feel it beat against his chest. Duh dum. Duh dum. Duh dum. Slowly, steadily it went as they stared into each others eyes.As his heart beat for her under their hands.“Does this,” he questioned, “feel wrong?”-Where Anne and Richard are star-crossed lovers.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello people! I hope you all enjoy this. I was inspired by the netflix series Troy: Fall of a city which is kinda sorta good, like the acting is good but the writing and characterisation is kinda crap. Oh well, I couldn't get this idea out of my head. I know the plot seems kinda convoluted, but I hope you guys enjoy it anyway. I played around with the myth and actual history quite a bit, so if you're familiar with the story of the Trojan war I think you'll notice some of the similarities. This fic will be based on both fact and myth. I hope you guys all enjoy, we have another two chapters left which I don't know when I'll update cuz I'm on vacation, but I'll get this done as soon as possible. There will be more Anne/Richard stuff in the next chapters, I promise. 
> 
> Please leave your thoughts. Thanks again! 
> 
> Until next time,   
> Fionakevin073

-

_There is a girl that lingers in Dickon’s dreams._

 

_When he was young, she was as old as he._

 

_She’s the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen. In his dreams, she appears to him like a goddess. Her long locks tumble down to her waist in waves. It’s a beautiful colour. It starts as a shade of brown at the top, before transforming into honey-gold at the bottom. Dickon always has the urge to run his fingers through it, as though it were something delicate._

 

_Her eyes are a beautiful chestnut brown that always twinkle. She’s always smiling, when he dreams of her. Her skin is a blemish free, golden hue that flushes a rosy pink when she meets his eye._

 

_The dream is the same._

 

_“Dickon,” she calls out, extending a small hand to him. “Come.”_

 

_Where, he does not know._

 

_“I’m waiting.”_

 

_Just as he is about to respond, he —_

 

_“Dickon!”_

 

_Dickon felt his eyes snap open as Agelaus shook him awake._

 

_“What is it?” he murmured, before he muffled a yawn._

 

_“The sheep.”_

 

_“What about them?”_

 

_He was so close to her. But Dickon has grown used to these dreams. He’s had so many of the years, and all of them have been interrupted in some way or another._

 

_Agelaus chuckled at his words._

 

_“They need to be herded you fool,” he jested, and shook him once more._

 

_“Why don’t you do it?” Dickon grumbled, his eyes lazily met Agelaus’s grey ones._

 

_“You’re ten and five now, Dickon,” Agelaus began_

 

_Dickon groans at the lecture he knows is coming._

 

_“You’re a —“_

 

_“Yes, I know, I’m almost a man now. I need to start taking responsibility for the farm.”_

 

_Agelaus sighed_

 

_Dickon would usually try and appease Agelaus in some way, but he’s suddenly overcome by a painful twitch in his left shoulder. He can’t stop himself from grimacing and Agelaus immediately goes from disapproving to concerned._

 

_“Dickon, are you alright?” he questioned, placing a hand on his crooked shoulder._

 

_“I’m fine,” Dickon gritted out. His tan hands curled into fists._

 

_Agelaus reached for the strap by Dickon’s small make shift bed, made of a few furs and pillows that Dickon assumed his mother made. Dickon always wore the strap under his shoulder, to try and hide and his deformity. His left shoulder was slightly lower than his right; he had taken a bad fall when he was a child, and the bones had not been set right. There were no physicians out in the wilderness and the Gods knew they could not afford a city healer._

 

_“If your shoulder is weak —“_

 

_“It’s fine,” Dickon assured Agelaus, after the pain faded and he strapped on the padding. “I’ll be sure to be careful.”_

 

_Agelaus sighed before he handed him an apple._

 

_“Be careful not to venture close to the sea!” he called out, just as Dickon was about to walk out the door._

 

_Dickon smiled before turning to look at him._

 

_“Don’t worry, if I see mermaids or Poseidon himself I’ll give you a shout!”_

 

_Dickon walked away with the faint sound of Agelaus’s chuckles in his ears._

 

i. 

 

_For the first time he can remember, in all of his seventeen years, the dream changes._

 

_The familiar whisper of the sea is there. The sun still shines brightly, and his senses are still muddled and sluggish. But she’s closer now._

 

_Her clothes have changed. Before, she was dressed all in white. A clear, blinding white that hurt his vision. Dickon can see her more clearly now. Can recognise her instantly. Before, she shined so brightly whenever she appeared he only had a faint sense of remembrance until he recognised her voice._

 

_“Dickon,” she murmurs._

 

_He glances at her outstretched hand. He can see the smooth, unmarked skin. The delicate pearls on her left wrist._

 

_If he lifted his hand now, he could touch her. But his arms feel uncharacteristically heavy. Even his shoulder feels more burdensome than usual._

 

_But what is truly unnerving is the way his mouth opens to respond. A name is already ready on his lips. How, he does not know._

 

_“A —“_

 

Dickon woke with a start, his neck wet with sweat. 

 

For a few moments, he struggled to place his surroundings. The room was dark and his eyes took awhile to adjust, but his muscles gradually begin to relax into against the uncomfortable ground under his back, the dirty pillow under his dark, unruly curls. He can hear Agelaus’s snores from the other side of the hut. His heart fluttered with relief at the sound; he hadn’t woken him. Agelaus had become overbearing ever since — 

 

Dickon shook his head. The less he thought about that, the better. With fastidious care, he climbed out of bed and prepared himself for the long day ahead. He was the first one to rise now; his father was old now and Dickon had finally reached manhood. He was a boy — a _man —_ of ten and seven years. While he may have been a few years younger than when most boys started to take over the household, Dickon did not mind. 

 

Not that it was a particularly large household. It had only been Dickon and Agelaus since his mother died in childbed. They had the heard, some chickens, and some horses Agelaus had managed to buy from a traveller crossing from Troy to Greece. Dickon did not mind the additional responsibilities; perhaps because he thought Agelaus would start to treat him more like an adult. With less patronisation. 

 

Dickon cast a glance at the open window. Hues of purple and soft yellow had started to chase the darkness from above. With a wry twist of his mouth at the sound of Agelaus’s snores, Dickon made his way out of the small, dishevelled hut he called his home. 

 

The air was fresh; the morning breeze had not yet given way to the familiar scorching heats that Dickon was used to. He smiled pleasantly at the realisation, before making his way over to where they kept the animals. 

 

First, as always, he fed the chickens and then the horses. He always made sure to finish with this before the sun had fully risen, so he could gather his flock and wonder to the fields where there was a plentiful of grass. In truth, he liked doing it so early so that he could be alone. Could savour his thoughts and surroundings in silence without fear of encountering anyone unpleasant, or worse, having to listen to another lecture from Agelaus. 

 

Dickon loathed to feel the constant eyes on his back, the nervous aura his father had whenever he ventured too far for too long. It seemed like he was in constant fear of him disappearing again — 

 

Dickon bit the bottom of his lip. The scars left from the rows he had with his father after what happened had yet to fully heal. Dickon was entrusted with the care of the household, but Agelaus seemed rather wary to let Dickon wonder. As though he was aware of something that he was not. 

 

Not that he had much to wonder to. The city was far from their humble abode — a day or so with a horse, almost a week on foot, and while there were a few small villages — Dickon hesitated to even call them that, it was more like a small collection of families who lived in close vicinity out of sheer necessity, only two to three dozen or so members — they offered nothing he could not find for himself here. The only friend he had was Francis. Francis, who was a shepherd’s son like him, except he had two brothers and a sister and a mother. 

 

Everyday, he and Francis met by the olive tree at the road they both travelled with their herds after dawn, and there they ate their midday meal together, sharing and splitting the food equally. Grapes, slices of apples, the few pieces of charred, hard bread they could find, some olives plucked from the trees around them. Dickon knew no better companion than Francis and supposed he should be happier than he felt. He had father who loved him and never laid a hand on him, a roof over his fed, food in his belly on a mostly regular basis, and a lifetime friend. 

 

Yet somehow, Dickon still wondered when his life would change. 

 

ii. 

 

The sun had not fully risen when Dickon finally reached the field. With a cautious look at his herd, Dickon sat on a nearby rock and reached for the pouch of water he had retrieved before leaving. He grimaced at the warmth of the liquid, but continued to quench his thirst. It was not like cold water was available to him. 

 

With time on his hands, his mind began to wonder to his dream. It was not the first time he had seen the girl. In truth, he could not remember a time where he _hadn’t_ seen her. Where he couldn’t remember her. But last night was the first time he had been able to respond — or had started to respond. For a split moment, he wondered whether or not she was real, before he quickly dismissed the idea. A woman of beauty such as she — a mortal woman — could not possibly be real. The only solution was that Aphrodite, the goddess of love and beauty, had been visiting his dreams since he was a child. 

 

But why a goddess would take it upon herself to visit the dreams of a shepherd’s son he had no idea. With a sigh of frustration, Dickon glanced up at the sky. It was not as though he had never seen a woman before. Secluded though he may be, he had talked to a girl who was not Francis’s sister before. 

 

He had bumped into some farmer’s daughter on more than a handful of occasions, had even kissed one of them. That was a clumsy affair that made Dickon uncomfortable till this day. Kathryn was her name, a girl a few months younger than he, with long light locks and pale green eyes. A twinge of guilt always formed in his stomach when he thought of her. He knew she was far more attached to him than he to her. Francis had even told him there were rumours her family was preparing a dowry for her, as though they expected Dickon to marry her within the year. She was of childbearing age after all, and Dickon enjoyed her company more than he usually did others, but there was a part of him that  searched for flickers of chestnut hues in her light locks. Struggled to find flecks of brown in her eyes. Dickon would not marry a girl or fill her head with ideas of a future he had no intention of providing — or any desire to have, at least not yet. 

 

As much as he wished to deny it, Dickon was enamoured with a dream girl. A figment of his imagination. He startled at the sound of a bird cawing next to his ear. He caught a quick glance of thick black wings that quickly flew towards the forest at the edge of the field. His gaze flickered over the tall trees, the wild bushes, the single sheep heading into the forest — 

 

The sheep! 

 

“Shit,” he cursed, scrambling to his feet. 

 

Wolves run through those forest at every turn and Gods, they can’t afford to lose any of their sheep, even the one. Dickon looked around fervently, counting the sheep that came into view and exhaling with relief when only the one was missing. 

 

He sent a quick prayer to the God Pan that none of the others would attempt to escape, and before he could convince himself otherwise — or realise the stupidity of his plan — he ran after the sheep. 

 

“Shit,” he swore again. 

 

He entered the forest quickly enough, was able to trace the sheep’s prints on the ground below. But there was something strange in the air — a quiet that one never experienced in a forest. The birds were silent. The breeze had chilled. Dickon was suddenly aware of the soft glow of the sun, cascading through the trees. The source of his flight to the forest was a few feet away from him, staring at him with unblinking eyes. 

 

Dickon opened his mouth to speak, but something stopped him. 

 

The sheep began to move and damn him, Dickon followed. 

 

Dickon followed until — 

 

“Welcome.” 

 

Dickon did his very best not to jump out of his skin. Out of nowhere, five figures had materialised before his very eyes. One man sat by a small fire, where an oddly shaped object seemed to cook in a gold like substance. But it was the not the man by the fire or the man who had spoken to him that grabbed his attention. It was the three women standing beside them. They were all captivating in their own right. 

 

Dickon did not know which to look at. He alternated every few moments. One was pale — her skin a milky white Dickon had never seen before. Her hair was pitch black, her brows the same, creating a contrast so stark it couldn’t help but be appealing. The darkness of her hair was made all the more apparent by her cream gown that exposed her slender shoulders. 

 

The second woman was dark skinned, like one of the few Indians Dickon had seen travelling to the sea. Her exoticness was part of her allure. Her black eyes were rimmed with grey shadows and her lips were a shade of nude Dickon was fascinated by. Her attire was dark — a grey chiton lined by black furs. 

 

And the other — 

 

“Welcome, mortal.” 

 

Dickon turned towards the man at last. Handsome though he was, Dickon was more fascinated by the small wings attached to his shoes. 

 

“Hermes,” he gasped quietly. 

 

The name echoed throughout the forest. 

 

Dickon blinked — once, twice — and found that Hermes had extended his hand out to him. In his tan hands lay the object that had been cooking in the gold substance. It looked rather like an apple to him. 

 

“Take the apple,” Hermes commanded. Dickon observed the sneer — the arrogance that twisted his mouth. He glanced down at the apple, but did not take it. 

 

“Are you sure this is the right mortal for the task?” Hermes turned his head to question the man by the fire. 

 

Dickon followed his gaze. A chill ran up his spine at the colour of his eyes — grey, like lightening. Despite their distance, Dickon could swear he saw flashes in the man’s eyes and knew without a doubt it was Zeus. 

 

“Yes, this is the boy for the task.” 

 

Dickon felt his heart drop to the bottom of his stomach. 

 

Hermes sighed briefly, but nevertheless continued on. 

 

“You have been chosen by Zeus, the leader of the Gods, to settle a dispute between three goddesses, Athena, Hera and Aphrodite.” Dickon shot a quick glance at the women, and there was a prickle of disappointment as he realised that the girl in his dreams was not who he thought her to be. 

 

Hermes, either due to his antipathy or deliberate shortsightedness, failed to notice his expression. 

 

“You must pick who is the fairest of the three.” 

 

There was a moment of silence before Dickon spoke. 

 

“Why me?” 

 

His voice sounded ill used, as though he were using it after a lifetime of silence. 

 

“I’m only a shepherd.” 

 

Hermes shrugged and once again offered the apple. 

 

Dickon did not hesitate this time. He plucked the golden objected out of his hands. He took a few moments to admire its beauty, before he surveyed the awaiting goddesses in front of him. 

 

“Hera,” Zeus snapped. 

 

The raven haired woman stepped forth. 

 

“Dickon,” she whispered, flashing him a warm smile. It was easy to see why she was the Goddess of motherhood, with a smile like that. But there was a flicker of ice in her eyes that made apprehension seep into his bones, though he tried his best to hide it. “Grant me the apple, and I will make you the most famous man alive.” 

 

Something stirred in him at her words. The ambitious side of himself that he rarely ever let show. What use would having ambition be to a shepherd’s son? But she was giving him the chance to fulfil desires he never dreamed of entertaining. 

 

“Athena.” Zeus’s voice was like a bucket of ice water. 

 

Dickon turned to look at the dark skinned woman. Her black orbs held the most intense look he had ever witnessed; it made him shrink, though they were still breathtaking regardless. He could feel his heart beat against his chest. 

 

“Give me the apple, and I’ll make you the best warrior and commander the world has ever seen.” 

 

Her voice was so soothing Dickon almost purred with delight. But that was part of her charm, was it not? How many men had been seduced into battle due to voices like these? 

 

And then — 

 

Dickon could not find the words to describe Aphrodite. Simply describing the colours of her current form would not do her justice. The only thing he can accurately describe is how he felt looking at her; how his breath hitched in his throat and warmth spread through his chest. 

 

She tilted her head as she looked at him, her soft, glittery hair fell in her eyes. There was a gleam of _something_ in her eyes, something he could not decipher. A small smile played on her full lips. 

 

“Grant me the apple, and I will ensure you meet the girl in your dreams.” 

 

His heart leapt to his throat as his blood quickened with excitement. He lowered his gaze to the forest floor, and wondered briefly whether or not he was dreaming. But his thoughts did not dwell long on that, and quickly went to the choice he had to make. 

 

Dickon would be lying if he said he did not want his life to change. He sometimes wished he didn’t have to wake up early in the morning to go feed the animals, wished he had cold water to soothe his aching throat. Wished he could go see the world. But some distaste lingered in his mouth at the thought of someone giving that to him. If Dickon was ever to become famous, or an acclaimed battle commander, he wanted it to be because he had earned it. Not because someone had given it to him. 

 

But still, to give that up just to meet a girl? 

 

Dickon did not know for how long, or when. He could meet her moments before his death — before her death. He raised his eyes and stared at Aphrodite for a moment, and something in her expression lowered his suspicions of trickery. He wondered how she knew about the girl. 

 

He became aware of Hermes muttering something to Zeus. 

 

“Nothing good can come of this,” Hermes said. 

 

“Quiet!” 

 

The forest turned silent once more. 

 

_You know what you want,_ his mind and heart whispered. _You’ve always known. Known it since you were a boy._

 

His hands tightened around the apple and, with a quick exhale of breath and the image of the girl burned to the back of his eyes, he extended his hand to Aphrodite. Dickon heard Athena and Hera exclaim angrily but it sounded so distant to his ears, as though they were standing miles away and not right next him. 

 

“When do I meet her?” he asked urgently, as she picked up the apple and admired it closely. 

 

This time, when she smiled, she showed her teeth. 

 

“In time,” she responded. 

 

With a beat and a gust of wind so strong Dickon fell over, they disappeared. 

 

iii. 

 

Dickon told no one of what he saw. Not even Francis. 

 

He lived those next few weeks in constant hope, waiting for the girl to show. Days slipped by. Life went on. 

 

It took Dickon four weeks to realise that she would not appear to him here. 

 

The realisation did not come with a great deal of surprise. But Dickon was torn, truly. He yearned to meet her but he had Agelaus. His father. Dickon remembered how he reacted two years ago, when Dickon had disappeared for a week. It pained him to think of causing that same anguish and distress once more. Yet, as his indecision continued, his dreams became worse. She haunted him more than before. 

 

This time, she laughed and when he woke the sound echoed in his ears for hours. When he was working, he would always see a glint of shining white at the corner of his eye, but when he turned to look nothing was there. He searched and searched in the familiar forests, he walked the same paths and admired the same sky and it became all the more apparent that wherever she was, she was not here. Not where he was. 

 

“Where are you?” he murmured one night, as he admired the night sky. 

 

The fire roared nearby him, casting him in a soft, warm glow that protected him from the night breezes. The stars twinkled down at him in response. 

 

“Dickon,” Francis exclaimed, and sat down beside him with some grapes in his hands. “You’ve been daydreaming for weeks.” 

 

Dickon knew not what to say or where to begin. 

 

“I’ve been having the weirdest dreams,” he said distantly, his eyes still trained on the night sky. “I can’t stop thinking about them.” 

 

Francis began to laugh but quickly stopped at the look on his friend’s face. Dickon shot a look around them, to ensure that Agelaus was not nearby. 

 

“Francis,” he began seriously, turning to stare his friend in the eye. “If I left here —“ 

 

“Dickon —“ 

 

“If I left here,” he said again, “Would you come with me?” 

 

Francis hesitated for a mere moment. 

 

“Yes,” he replied unwaveringly. 

 

Dickon relaxed a little at that. 

 

“I have to leave for a little while,” he told Francis. He stared at the fire. “I’ve been working ahead these past few weeks. I’ve saved and collected enough food that Agelaus will be fine for months. All he need do is feed the animals.” And his father could still do that. 

 

“You’ve thought this through,” Francis observed. His sandy hair fell in front of his green eyes. 

 

“Yes,” Dickon admitted guiltily. 

 

They were quiet for a few moments. 

 

“Why now?” Francis questioned. “After what happened, you swore you’d never leave again, Dickon. Why now? What changed?” 

 

Dickon tried to find the words to explain; failed and tried again. 

 

“I have to find someone,” he said finally. “She’s been waiting for me for years.” 

 

Francis started to speak, stopped, and simply stared at him with unreadable eyes. 

 

“Who is she?” he inquired. 

 

Dickon smiled humurously. 

 

“I don’t know,” he admitted honestly. He shrugged, gestured up at the stars. “I wish I did.” 

 

“This is madness,” Francis told him. “Absolute madness.” 

 

Dickon chuckled briefly. 

 

“I leave in two nights.” His heart beat nervously against his chest. “Will you join me?” 

 

Francis shrugged, looked around and then finally replied. 

 

“I think I can spare the time,” he joked. 

 

Dickon laughed with relief, happy to know that he would have his closest friend beside him, no matter what. 

 

iv. 

 

Two nights pass. 

 

Dickon does not sleep on that final night. 

 

He spent his night staring at the wooden ceiling, wondering whether or not he would be here for the last time. He tried to ignore the sudden feeling of superstition that lingered in his gut. But mostly, Dickon lay there and listened to Agelaus’s snores. Never had the sound comforted him so; never had he enjoyed the noise so much. Guilt tightened itself around his heart, but Dickon tried his best to push it away. 

 

He would only be gone for a little while at the most. 

 

He would return. 

 

He would. 

 

Dickon thought of the small pack he had hidden behind the bushes near the stables. He would only take one horse of course. He sent a quick prayer to Aphrodite, asking for her blessing. Begging her to take care of Agelaus. For that was his true reservation. Leaving his father. 

 

His heart ached at the thought of hurting him but — 

 

Dickon could not stay. He could not. 

 

He remembered Aphrodite’s words. 

 

_In time,_ she had said. 

 

_I don’t have to leave,_ he thought. _I can stay here for a while longer. Agelaus needs me. If it is meant to happen, then it will. It need not happen right away._

 

And yet, there was something restless within in. Something that urged him to move forward. To leave the only world he had ever known. Dickon lay there and thought of the one time he had almost left. 

 

It had been like any ordinary day. 

 

Dickon had left to take care of the animals, had taken the sheep out for the morning and then he had stumbled onto a wounded, bloody soldier. Though he and Agelaus lived deep in the mountains, far from the main city, even they had heard of the bloody war occurring between the York’s and the Lancaster’s. Dickon, though his knowledge of politics and the outside world was limited, knew that the York’s ruled Troy, where they overlooked the trading between the East and the West. Agelaus had told him that the Lancaster’s were the High Rulers of Greece, but that King Henry was rumoured to be mad and his wife was a Franco Princess who hated the York’s and their growing influence. 

 

That was all Dickon knew at the time. They were so secluded that the war did not touch them. Dickon had nursed the soldier — Richard, he said his name was — and brought him food. Dickon had stayed with him for a week, fearful that if he left 

Dickon shook his head suddenly, casting those thoughts out of his mind. 

 

That had been different. Dickon had been a mere boy. Now, he was a man. A man promised a destiny by the Goddess Aphrodite herself. And he would have Francis by his side. He need not fear. Not yet, anyway. 

 

He waited until the first signs of dawn before he tiptoed out of his home. Before he left, he looked at his sleeping father, observed the taunt lines around his lips, the grey hair at the roots of his light head, the wrinkles on his forehead. 

 

_I love you Father,_ he thought. _I’m sorry._

 

He tore himself away before he changed his mind. 

 

— 

 

“Are you alright?” Francis asked. 

 

Dickon pulled at the reigns of his horse, called Agatha, halting its movement. Dickon gazed at the view in front of them. At the tall, green mountains that rose and fell in front of them. Of the morning clouds that hung around the mountains and circled them like hunters. It was a breathtaking view. 

 

“I will be,” he answered quietly. 

 

Francis shot him a sympathetic look. 

 

It was different for him. His parents had more children to rely on. Agelaus only had him. Guilt made his stomach lurch. 

 

“Let’s move on ahead,” he suggested. 

 

Francis nodded and, without another word spoken between them, they continued on their way. 

 

v. 

 

They had been traveling for a week when they reached the beach. 

 

Francis and Dickon halted at the sight of the endless blue, rendered speechless by its magnificent beauty, quite unlike anything they had seen before. They had learned to swim in the same lakes and ponds, but neither of them had ever seen the sea before. At least, never so up close. 

 

Dickon’s grey eyes glinted at the striking colour, a mix of blue and green that he knew not how to describe in a single world. They hopped off their horses, knowing that they were loyal enough not to flee and ran to the water like children. They swam and laughed under the sun, the salt seeping into their skin for hours. 

 

It was after they left the water that Dickon saw them. 

 

He squinted under the sun’s hot rays, unsure as to what he was seeing. 

 

“What are they doing?” he asked Francis. 

 

“I don’t know,” his friend replied. “It looks as though they are racing.” 

 

It was a big group of men, racing their horses along the shore in opposite direction to Francis and Dickon. Intrigued, Dickon tilted his head, ran a hand through his wild curls. 

 

“What do you say Francis?” he said, shooting his friend a rare grin. “Shall we join them?” 

 

Francis’s eyes widened. 

 

“Dickon!” he exclaimed. “I rather think that is a bad idea —“ 

 

But Dickon had already taken off, laughing, and had hopped onto his horse. 

 

“C’mon Francis,” he called over his shoulder. “It will be fun.” 

 

With a slap of his reigns, Agatha galloped over to the group. He didn’t have to look over his shoulder to know that Francis had joined him. As he neared them, he noticed one man on his horse, simply observing the group. He rode up to him and observed him closely, noticed the fine trim of his hair, his linen tunic that was the fanciest piece of clothing Dickon had ever seen, the gold rings on his fingers. 

 

“This is no place for farmers,” the man said, shooting Dickon a dismissive glance. He was at least two decades older than Dickon, maybe more. Dickon looked at the group ahead, taking notice of their similar luxurious clothing. One man seemed to be in the lead. He was brown haired, tall and even from afar Dickon could see the twinkle in his brown eyes as he skilfully rode his white stead. 

 

“Who are they?” he asked politely. 

 

The man let out a small, amused sound. 

 

“That man,” he said, pointing at the leader, “is the King’s younger brother, Prince George. The rest are other members of the Trojan nobility. They are training for the city games.” 

 

Dickon and Francis exchanged a perplexed look. 

 

“Forgive me,” he began. “But I fail to see how racing on the beach for a flag will assist someone in becoming a better fighter.” 

 

Francis had to bite down on his lip to prevent a laugh from escaping his throat. 

 

The man shot him a warning look. 

 

“I doubt a peasant would be able to understand the subtleties of the sport,” he replied. 

 

Dickon eyed the group again, his hands tightening around the reigns of his horse. 

 

“So, if I manage to grab the flag before they do, I will become a better soldier?” 

 

“In theory, yes. Not that you should attempt to, by any means —“ 

 

Perhaps his meeting with the Gods had made Dickon become mad, for by the time the man had finished his sentence, Dickon was already off, chasing after the group as he urged Agatha on. He knew not what made him so reckless, so eager to thrive on danger; only knew that he had a journey to embark and knew not how to get there. 

 

He saw some of the riders shoot him bewildered glances, but Dickon did not care. All he could feel was the sun on his back and the breeze against his skin as he urged Agatha forward, surging past the other riders with surprising quickness and skill. Dickon laughed with delight as he reached the flag and bent down to yank it out from the sand. Dickon made Agatha slow before he turned to look at the disgruntled riders. 

 

He waved the flag at Francis, who shook his head at him, though even from the distance Dickon could see him smile. 

 

“Who are you to interrupt the training of the noble houses of Troy?” one of the men questioned. 

 

“I’m just a shepherd,” Dickon replied casually. Unease made his posture straighten as they all began to surround him. 

 

“What shall we do with him, George?” someone asked. 

 

Dickon eyed them all warily, his grip on the flag tightening. He turned to look at George, and though he would deny he was extraordinarily handsome, his stomach tightened with distaste at the arrogant gleam in his eye. 

 

“I say we bring him to the games to fight my brother,” he declared. 

 

The men roared with laughter at the declaration, as though they knew something Dickon did not. 

 

“I’m not afraid,” he told them. 

 

He was not sure if that was actually true. 

 

“Dickon!” Francis called out. Alarm filled his voice. 

 

Dickon cast his friend a warning glance — if he was to be punished, he did not want to drag Francis down with him. 

 

“Mi’lords,” Francis murmured, bowing his head appropriately. “If I may ask what you wish to do with my friend?” 

 

Dickon noticed how all the men looked to Prince George for guidance. 

 

“We are taking your friend to the city games, since he is so eager to join us in training. You may join if you wish. Someone will have to bury him.” 

 

Dickon gulped. 

 

vi. 

 

At some point, he and Francis were forced off their horses. They walked under the heavy heat of the sun, sweat lining their brows as they trudged forward. Dickon spent that time looking around him, admiring the rows upon rows of fresh olive trees. He took notice of the workers that picked them. Even from a distance he could see how they were similarly tanned, the creases that all farmers shared, the well built muscles on a slim, under nourished frame. It comforted him, somewhat. Reminded him of home. 

 

“Dickon,” Francis gasped suddenly. “Look.” 

 

Dickon reluctantly dragged his eyes away and looked ahead. 

 

“What is. . . .” 

 

Words momentarily escaped him as they came into view of the golden city of Troy. They both stopped in their steps at the sight. It was unlike anything they had ever seen. The city of Troy was surrounded by tall — tall was not the appropriate word, but Dickon’s vocabulary was severely limited — towering walls that were built on all sides. He could see the palace on the top of a small hill — could sense the luxury and beauty even from the distance. Dickon had never seen a place so beautiful. 

 

_I’ll find you,_ he thought, his heart swelling with hope. _You must be here. You must be._

 

“Move along now,” the man commanded. 

 

Dickon slowly turned to look at him and nearly flinched at the roar of the crowds in the distance. The gravity of his situation suddenly occurred to him — life or death. He glanced at Prince George, thought that there was never a more arrogant Prince and grudgingly started to move ahead. At least he would die in some place beautiful. 

 

“What’s the plan?” Francis whispered to him. 

 

“I don’t have one,” he whispered back. 

 

Francis stared at him, wide eyed. 

 

“You’ve gone mad,” he breathed incredulously. “You can’t possibly mean to fight, you’ve never been in a brawl in your life.” 

 

That was true, of course. Dickon had always ensured that he maintained peaceful — at the very least respectful relations with those he encountered. This turn of events was a first for him. But while what Francis said was true, Dickon — despite his the small defect in his shoulder ( he was suddenly infinitely relieved that he still wore the strap that hid the defect) — was strong. Years of working the land had made him muscular. And he was quick on his feet. 

 

“I have to try,” is all he said. “I have to.” 

 

Aphrodite would protect him. 

 

Unless this was all some cruel jest, and he would meet the girl moments before he was beaten to death by the Prince’s brother. Dickon nearly shivered at the realisation that he would be fighting the King himself. _Should Kings even be participating in such events?_ he thought, rubbing his hands together. 

 

But Dickon had very little time to ponder over the idea. Soon they were entering the city gates and even though the crowds were immersed in the fighting, they still made way for the Prince and his followers. Dickon looked little at the fighting occurring — he saw a splash of blood, heard the muffled groans of pain— but he was captivated by the colours of the city. The soft brown of the walls, the way they glinted under the sun. The colours of the clothes — the soft purples, blues, greens, browns, reds and the ground beneath his feet. 

 

Dickon only returned to reality when someone snatched Agatha’s reigns from him and pushed him forward, so that he stood beside Prince George. 

 

“Ned!” Prince George exclaimed, his brown orbs glinting triumphantly. “I’ve brought you a man to fight.” 

 

Dickon looked forward and nearly toppled over with shock. For the Prince’s brother — Ned — was the soldier he had met that fateful day two years ago. It took him a moment to recognise the man’s strong, handsome face without the blood and mud that caked his features, but he was sure it was him. 

 

_So much for Richard,_ he thought. 

 

But mayhaps he would recognise him and save him from this foolishness. Dickon observed the King closely; the golden hair that curled on his forehead, the strong jaw, the clear blue eyes that twinkled with charm, the width of his soldiers. He gulped nervously, aware that though he was strong and quick, this man far surpassed him in all aspects. His jaw nearly dropped to the floor when the King rose to his feet — he was extraordinarily tall. 

 

“Lord Warwick,” Richard — Ned — the King drawled. It took Dickon a moment to realise that he was addressing the man Dickon had first talked to. 

 

Lord Warwick laughed. 

 

“So it would seem, my lord,” he retorted. He brushed past Dickon without another glance, made his way to the row of chairs where the nobility were and sat beside a pretty looking girl. Due to the resemblance, Dickon guessed she were his daughter. He scanned the rows, looking for the face he longed so much for, but to no avail. 

 

“Ned,” a woman said suddenly, her voice stern with disapproval. 

 

Dickon glanced at the elder woman, took note of her fading yellow tresses that tumbled to her waist, the jewellery that adorned her thin body and knew that this woman was of great importance. 

 

“Mother,” the King laughed, and tugged his tunic over his head, leaving him in only his pants. “I will be fine, I swear. No weapons at all.” 

 

She still looked as though she disapproved, but she sighed quietly and looked at Dickon so suddenly his heart lurched. There was something strangely maternal about her, something that made his heart quicken. Someone shoved Dickon forward, made him stumble and almost fall to his feet. 

 

_Gods,_ he thought. _I am about to be beaten by a King._

 

He glanced at the fair headed man and his heart sank with the realisation that he would not or did not recognise him. Dickon straightened his posture, kept his gaze on the King as they circled around. He was distinctly aware of everyone’s attention on them. The King about to fight this random commoner who insulted his brother. 

 

The King ran at him out of nowhere, and Dickon barely managed to dodge the attack, turned on his heels, took a few steps away. If the King look disgruntled at his sudden escape, he did not show it. Long gone was the charm in his eyes. Now they were cool, focused. 

 

Dickon’s heart beat nervously in his chest. _The legs,_ he thought, _go for his legs._

 

He let out a shaky breath, prayed that his shoulder would not fail him now, and waited. 

 

Dickon did not have to wait long. The King charged at him again and Dickon managed to skip off to the side and directed an ill aimed kick at the back of his opponents legs. Maybe it was surprise that caused him to stumble but the King quickly regained his bearings and leaped at Dickon, tackling him to ground. 

 

All of his breath fled his lungs at the sudden impact and the King punched him in the ribs. Dickon was barely aware that the he had climbed off him the pain was so great. He panted painfully and yet something in him roared at the sight of the King’s back to him. At the yells of approval from the crowd as he waved at them and smiled. Frustration was a powerful thing and that was what Dickon was. He had a journey he did now know how to start. He left his father. And he was desperate to meet the girl who lived in his dreams. 

 

Perhaps it was that which propelled him to his feet and made him tackle the King down to the ground. He had the element of surprise on his side. The King fell down without much resistance and Dickon took the opportunity to hit him anywhere he could. Most of his hits were ill aimed, and no doubt caused his hands more hurt than anything, but Dickon sat there and unleashed all of his pent up frustration and confusion. 

 

One hit. 

 

Another. 

 

Another. 

 

The King’s arms had started to rise, reaching for his hands, his throat but Dickon kept on fighting and fighting until the King’s hands suddenly darted to his worn tunic and tore the fabric and the strap off his shoulder in mere moments. Dickon had barely blinked and suddenly he was slammed onto the ground. His shoulder pulsed with pain so strong it was eye blinding, and rendered him incapable of resisting. 

 

His shoulder would fail him one more time in his life, but Dickon did not know that. 

 

Now, the only thing he knew was the onslaught of hits directed at his face — his chest, his shoulders. Dickon stared up dazedly at the King, met his eyes. _How blue they are,_ he thought, _I never noticed._ The fury in the King’s eyes began to lessen the longer he stared into Dickon’s grey orbs. His eyes darted down to Dickon’s shoulder and — 

 

“Edward, stop!” 

 

At the same time the King’s mother yelled, he had already begun to let go of him. Dickon stared up at him, the pain making his head throb even more. Blood trickled down his mouth as he stared up at the King. His heart tightened at the expression of complete awe on his face; of deathly shock. 

 

“Richard?” he whispered. 

 

Dickon blinked up at him. 

 

He pulled Dickon onto his feet, his eyes lingering on Dickon’s crooked shoulder. He had to hold onto Dickon’s arms tightly in order to keep him upright. 

 

“I’m Dickon,” he slurred. _I saved your life once._

 

King Edward’s eyes filled with recognition as he met his gaze. 

 

“No,” he said, his voice soft. “You’re my brother Richard.” 

 

“What?” Dickon breathed. A soft hand was suddenly on his shoulder, a woman’s hand. He was distantly aware of how quiet the crowd had gone. 

 

“Look at me,” the King’s mother commanded. 

 

Dickon obeyed, still blinded by this onslaught of information. Her eyes are heartbreakingly gentle as they devour his face hungrily. Her hands spread from his shoulders to his face and tears quicken in her brilliant blue orbs. 

 

“You’ve come back to me,” she gasped. “Richard.” 

 

“The lost Prince of Troy has returned,” King Edward said loudly. “Prince Richard has returned home.” 

 

Dickon stood there, blood bubbling in his mouth as the crowd suddenly swarmed them and lifted him above their heads as they carried him to the palace doors. 

 

“Prince Richard!” they yelled. 

 

And as they cheered and welcome home, all Dickon could do was stare at the sky, the one thing that had not changed. 

 

vii. 

 

After they had bathed him and clothed him in some fancy silk tunic, Dickon was escorted by several guards to — he didn’t know where. His senses were numb, his body still overcome with shock. He stared around the palace, but did not comprehend the world around him. 

 

“Francis,” he murmured suddenly. “Where is Francis?” 

 

The guards shot each other a look and one of them offered him a small, sympathetic smile. 

 

“We’ll find him,” he swore. “We’ll bring him to your chambers, my lord.” 

 

Dickon flinched at that. 

 

_My lord._

 

He was no Lord, he was a shepherd. 

 

His father was a shepherd, and so was he. 

 

He had left on pure madness, on a promise from a Goddess. It was only recklessness and Prince George’s cruelty that brought him to the city, nothing else. The guards led him through some tall, wooden doors and Dickon gazed around the room and somehow knew that these were private rooms. He recognised Lord Warwick, the King, his mother and Prince George all standing around each other, talking amongst themselves. There was someone behind them — 

 

“Agelaus,” he said, stunned at the sight of his father. 

 

He wished to rush to him, to hug him and plead for his forgiveness, 

 

Dickon wanted to go home. 

 

“Father,” he breathed, but shock made him stand still, as did the look in Agelaus’s eyes. He’d never seen such detachment in his father’s eyes before. 

 

The Kings’s mother moved towards him, cupped his face in her hands. The love in her eyes was foreign to him. 

 

“I thought you were dead, my Richard,” she told him. 

 

Tears glinted in her eyes. She hugged him closely, nestled her face in his shoulder. 

 

“Your father and I thought you had died,” she told him, loud enough that everyone in the room heard. 

 

Dickon kept his eyes on Agelaus. He was his father. She pulled away, and took notice of his line of sight. 

 

“Lad,” the King said, approaching him slowly. “Though this man has done you a great kindness, he is not your family. We are.” 

 

Dickon continued to stare at Agelaus. _They’re wrong,_ he wanted to scream. _Tell them they’re wrong._

 

But no confusion swirled in his father’s eyes. He only seemed aloof, content to accept their claims and be done with it. He met Dickon’s gaze briefly, but quickly looked away. 

 

“They’re right Dickon,” he told him. 

 

Dickon’s mouth opened. 

 

“I found you in the mountains when you were a babe, wrapped in a cloth.” Dickon took notice of the small, well worn cloth in his father’s hands. “I took you back to my home, raised you as I would my own son. You are not of my blood, Dickon.” 

 

There was a few moments of silence. 

 

“Why didn’t you recognise me?” he croaked. He lifted his eyes towards the King. “I saved your life. I stayed with you for a week.” 

 

The King glanced down, his face set in stone. 

 

“You were taken by wolves so young,” he murmured. “I only saw you when you were a babe. The only reason I recognised you now was because of your shoulder.” 

 

“You two have met?” 

 

Dickon only now took notice of Prince George, of the suspicion that glinted in his dark orbs as he stared at Dickon. 

 

“Yes,” the King replied. “We met two years ago, after Father and Edmund were killed and I was separated from the army. Richard took care of me before Lord Warwick found me. I would have surely died if not for him.” 

 

The words hung heavy in the room. 

 

“Say goodbye to Agelaus now, Dickon,” the King’s mother — _his_ mother said. 

 

She moved away from him reluctantly, and allowed Agelaus to approach him. For the first time since the revelation, Dickon willingly moved forward into his father’s arms and hugged him tightly. He savoured the familiar embrace, clung onto him tightly as he buried his face in his neck. 

 

“Father,” he murmured into his skin. 

 

Agelaus pulled away. 

 

“Goodbye,” he said softly, his eyes scanning Dickon’s face, as though he wished to commit it to memory. 

 

He left shortly thereafter. 

 

The ache in his chest was so strong Dickon could not breathe. 

 

“Welcome home,” the King’s mother said and hugged him once more.

 

It took a few moments, but soon enough the King had hugged him as well and soon Dickon was enwrapped in a circle of people he did not know, but were apparently his family. 

 

He had never felt so alone. 

 

viii. 

 

Days slipped into weeks. 

 

Weeks slowly turned into one month. 

 

Dickon wandered around the palace, awestruck by its beauty yet numb by his situation. 

 

True to their word, Francis had joined him shortly. But even he knew not what to say to his friend. Dickon was numb, unreachable. He was in a foreign world, one which he was thrust into without his consent and was constantly studied by all those who came across him. 

 

For he stood out like a sore thumb. Regardless of his sudden new status, Dickon’s appearance was strikingly different to those of the other nobility. Though they all had various hair and eye colours, they were all pale or fashionably tanned. Their hair was cut evenly and their hands were cleaned, free of creases and scars and scratches. Dickon’s skin was almost brown, compared to theirs. His black curls were still as unruly as ever and his hands were littered with small scars that he had collected over the years — one from a horse, from carrying rocks, from all various kinds of chores. 

 

The longer he stayed at the palace, the more he realised that he would never return home, to Agelaus. The more he thought it, the more his heart ached. And so Dickon ate, but did not taste. Slept, but did not dream. Lived, but did not laugh or smile. He was uncomfortable with the affection his mother — Cecily, he discovered her name was — lathered upon him. Yet he was more ill at ease at the looks George sent him when he thought he did not notice. Even Edward seemed to inspect him at times. 

 

Dickon had been at the palace a month before Edward summoned him to his rooms. Dickon took a moment to appreciate the simple luxury of the room, the silk sheets, the feathered pillows, things Dickon never dreamed of having. The King — _his brother_ — was standing out on the balcony, overlooking the city. Dickon, without being asked or acknowledged, moved beside him. 

 

“Look at it,” his brother murmured. “This is home.” 

 

Dickon stayed silent. His home was still a small shack in the woods, surrounded by trees and silence and harmony. Home was not this large, otherworldly city full of colour and people and noise. 

 

“That’s the fish market,” Edward said, pointing. “You can find the best fish in the East there.” A moment passed, he pointed somewhere else. “There is where we sell the finest silks imported from the farthest places on this continent.” He went on and on, pointing at things, explaining. 

 

“Why are you doing this?” he asked quietly, once Edward had grown silent. 

 

His brother looked at him seriously, his mouth twisted into a small smile. 

 

“You’re my brother,” he said finally. “I want this to become your home, Richard.” 

 

Edward sighed suddenly, his blue eyes probing into his grey ones. 

 

“You remind me of our brother, Edmund. He had your eyes.” Edward frowned for a moment, corrected himself. “Or you had his eyes. You remind me of him.” There was sadness in his voice, a sadness that Dickon remembered from all those years ago. He recalled how he had been so disturbed the expression of pure anguish and grief on the soldier’s face, all those years ago. 

 

He now knew why. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “For your loss.” 

 

He ignored the fact that Edmund was his brother too — that his father also perished as well. He did not know them, barely knew Edward himself. He would not pretend to feel a loss that was not his. 

 

“You’re a man of your word,” Edward stated. 

 

Dickon frowned, gazed at with him confused eyes. 

 

“You already know that,” he countered. 

 

Edward’s eyes darkened as he tilted his head in agreement. Dickon had stayed by his side after he had made him swear not to tell anyone of what had occurred. Dickon had not even told Agelaus, even when he yelled at him. He had only told Francis after he was sure the soldier had disappeared, when he could no longer do him any good. 

 

It took Dickon a moment to realise that Edward’s attention was focused on something down below. He followed his gaze, saw George talking with Lord Warwick, saw the hand he had placed on the elder man’s daughter. Isabel, he thought her name was. He liked Warwick little and George less, but something deeper than dislike spread through his chest as he observed them. It was alarm. 

 

“They’re dangerous, aren’t they?” he questioned. 

 

He felt Edward look at him. 

 

“Tensions between myself and Warwick have been rising for years,” he admitted quietly. “Ever since I became King, and expelled the last forces of that bitch of Anjou, Warwick has not let me forget that I owe him my gratitude for his assistance. And George —“ His mouth twitched bitterly. “George serves only George, blood or no.” 

 

Dickon’s heart tugged with sympathy. 

 

“An alliance between the two, especially through marriage, would be catastrophic,” Edward continued quietly. “And I daresay I’ve not helped matters.” 

 

“What do you mean?” 

 

“I’m married,” Edward confessed quietly. Even through his seclusion, Dickon had heard Francis rattle on about how Lord Warwick was planning a grand marriage for the King. Some Princess from the West that would guarantee them power over the Lancasters. 

 

“To who?” 

 

Edward let out an amused sound. 

 

“No one Warwick would approve of,” he replied. 

 

They regarded each other quietly, carefully, and Dickon knew he was not alone in wondering whether or not they were both being honest. 

 

“Can I trust you?” Edward asked finally. “These next few years may be the most troublesome of your life. I know you do not know me, or trust me, and I admit I don’t quite trust you yet, but blood means something to me. More than it does George. If you stay with me, you will never regret it, Richard.” 

 

Dickon stood there, pondered over his choices. He thought of George on that beach, then of Aphrodite, then of the the girl in his dreams. He looked at Edward, wondered yet again how he ended up here, and felt something settle near his heart. 

 

“Why not?” he said jokingly. “I have nothing to lose.” 

 

That wasn’t entirely true. He had the girl to meet, to love, to get to know. But for once, Dickon was surrendering himself to Aphrodite’s word. 

 

_In time,_ she had said. 

 

Dickon was now choosing to believe her. 

 

“You have me,” he told Edward, meaning it. 

 

Edward smiled. 

 

ix. 

 

Edward was right. 

 

When he revealed that he’d married a woman five years his senior, already widowed with two boys, Warwick was murderous. Dickon did not think he had ever seen someone so angry before. Warwick could be heard yelling and cursing from the other side of the palace. And George — damn, George pranced around with a smug smile on his face. 

 

Edward was right yet again. 

 

Those were the most troublesome years of his life. 

 

The Kingdom of Troy was once more thrown into turmoil. Edward and Richard on one side and George and Warwick on the other. It was rather strange for Dickon. As the tension boiled over even more, he was saddled with increasingly more responsibilities. As he learned how to be Prince — learned things like the history of Troy, learnt about the wars with Lancaster and other noble families, learnt how to read well, he was also trying not to get himself killed. 

 

It wasn’t as though Edward’s bride was particularly kind, either. 

 

The people of Troy called Elizabeth Woodville the most beautiful woman in the world, and if Richard hadn’t known better, he would have agreed with them. But she was haughty and mistrustful, wary of those who came close to her husband, especially him, the wild Prince. Regardless of his lack of friendship with his wife, Dickon had made Edward a promise to stay by him no matter what. 

 

And so he did. 

 

When they were forced to flee Troy a year after Dickon’s sudden return, he stayed by Edward’s side. In those few months, Dickon took a life for the first time. Tasted blood on his tongue. But something good came out of those few months. He and Edward grew closer. He learnt what it was like to have a brother. 

 

“Richard, did you ever find that girl?” Edward asked him one night, during their exile. 

 

Dickon startled at that; he had forgotten he had told Ned about her all those years ago. 

 

“No,” he admitted ruthfully. Something pierced him near his heart. Some emotion that made their situation even more dour. 

 

“I’m sorry for all this,” Ned told him. “You only just became a Prince, to lose it so quickly — to live like this —“ 

 

“Don’t mention it,” he interrupted. 

 

It was nights like this Dickon thought of Agelaus, of the man he had called his Father for so long. He hadn’t seen him in a year. 

 

“The people love you, Ned,” he told his brother. He wasn’t lying. The devotion the people of Troy showed him was quite unnatural, to even think that they’d willingly accept George as a replacement — despite the fact that he had married Isabel, Lord Warwick’s daughter, who was quite popular with the people — was laughable. “We’ll be home soon.” 

 

He wondered then when the palace became _home_ to him. 

 

Dickon was right. 

 

It took a month and one victorious battle for them to return to the city, who welcomed them with open arms. George had pleaded for Ned’s forgiveness, told him he was merely following his father in law’s will, that he had no true desire for the throne. Ned had accepted his apologies, for more their mother’s sake than his own, Dickon suspected. 

 

Regardless, when they entered the city, the crowds roared so loud his ears rang for days. 

 

“Long live the King!” they chanted. 

 

And then smaller, but still there; 

 

“Long Live Prince Richard! May the Gods bless you!” 

 

_They have,_ Dick— _Richard_ thought, gazing at the people with something very akin to awe. 

 

Whether he liked it or not, this was his life now. 

 

He was no longer Dickon, he was Richard. 

 

Richard, the lost prince. 

 

Richard, the favoured brother of a magnificent King. 

 

x. 

 

Richard is twenty-two when they receive the first envoy from the Kingdom of Sparta. 

 

After the brief war with Warwick, Troy prospered like no other. Left in peace by the Lancaster’s, they knew four years of continued, unchallenged peace. Richard explored the city so thoroughly he knew it as well as he did the mountains of his childhood. 

 

He made friends beside Francis, who stuck with him through all the madness. Rob Percy, Robert Brackenbury, Jack Howard among others. He grew taller, not as tall as Ned, of course, but tall enough he was similar to George. 

 

Richard was happy, those years. 

 

Happier than he had ever been. 

 

All the family is supping together, warm sunlight fluttering through the dining hall as they roar with laughter, devour themselves on delicious meals that were so rich he had to eat them little by little to avoid making himself ill. Though Richard was aware that the door opened, he was too busy jesting with Ned to notice. 

 

“From the King of Sparta,” Will Hastings, one of Ned’s closest advisors declared. 

 

The room grew silent. 

 

The King of Sparta was the only son of Margaret of Anjou, the woman responsible for the deaths of his father and Edmund, for the near destruction of his house. Ned had told him that Margaret had married her son off into the Spartan royal family when Richard was fifteen and the boy — Edouard — eighteen. It was a political marriage, Richard had been told, with no sign of an heir in seven years of marriage. 

 

“Poor girl,” Edward murmured. “The boy is said to be as vicious as his mother. Hastings told me that the Lancaster pup ordered that anyone who dared voice the rumour that Harry of Lancaster was not his father would have their tongues cut out.” 

 

That had been years ago though, before they had been forced into exile by Warwick and George. 

 

Richard glanced at George, uneasy at the sudden spark of interest in his eyes. 

 

“What does he want?” Richard asked Ned, after he had opened the correspondance. 

 

Ned’s eyes were uncharacteristically grim. 

 

“He wishes to start negotiations with Troy,” he announced. 

 

“It’s a trick!” their mother exclaimed. “It is, Edward. It must be. No son of Lancaster would ever try to negotiate with the Yorks.” 

 

Edward seemed to ponder over her words, though his brow furrowed. 

 

“What else?” Richard prompted. 

 

A ghost of a smile fluttered on his elder brother’s lips. 

 

“He has invited one of us to go to Sparta —“ 

 

“No, Ned, you can not!” the Queen protested and placed a protective hand over her pregnant belly. 

 

The Queen was pregnant with her and Ned’s fourth child. It struck Richard as odd that the first thing they could agree on was this. 

 

“She’s right Ned,” Richard quickly added. “You can’t go, even if you were thinking of. . .” 

 

His voice trailed off. He wasn’t quite sure why he was not surprised. Everyone from the East and the West had heard of the massive row between Margaret of Anjou and her son. The fact that Edward was seizing the chance to establish an alliance with her gullible, impulsive son who was eager to establish independence from his mother was not unlike him. 

 

But Edward did not seem angry at their protests. In fact, he looked as though he were expecting them. 

 

“I do not intent on traveling to Sparta,” he commented, taking a sip of his wine. 

 

“Then who?” Cecily questioned softly. 

 

Edward’s eyes flickered towards him. 

 

“Richard,” he answered. 

 

The room grew deathly quiet at his answer. 

 

“What?” George inquired softly. 

 

Richard glanced at his brother, increasingly aware that he was growing angrier and angrier by the minute. He knew that Edward had never truly forgiven George for siding with Warwick, knew that another serious fall out between them would be dangerous for them all. 

 

Edward arched a brow at George. 

 

“It is about time that Richard embarked on a solo diplomatic mission,” he replied cooly. “Richard has been returned to us for five years, no other royal house has yet made his acquaintance. It will be the perfect opportunity to introduce him to the outside world. Besides, I will send Hastings with him as well.” 

 

But there was more to it than that. 

 

The fact of the matter was that Ned trusted him far more than he did George. Ned could not simply send _anyone_ in his stead for risk of causing insult. It made perfect sense that he would send one of his brother’s in his stead. It just so happened that he was the one Ned trusted the most, the one he trusted would represent Troy’s interests. 

 

Ned himself confirmed it later that night. 

 

“Sending George to Sparta would be deathly,” he told Richard, as they drank wine in his private rooms. “I may as well sign Troy off to another war.” 

 

Richard waited a moment before he voiced a thought that had been plaguing him since he had first heard of the proposed alliance. 

 

“Ned,” he began, staring down into his cup. “You don’t need the alliance with Sparta. Troy has been doing just fine without it. So why the sudden need? Especially with Lancaster, of all people.” 

 

It took Ned a few moments to respond. 

 

“I want peace, Richard,” he admitted quietly. “I’ve fought more battle than I care to admit, and I’ve damned near lost it all before, more than once due to my own choices. Sparta is a valuable ally, would have made a valuable ally regardless of whether or not Edouard of Lancaster had been married into the royal family.” 

 

His blue eyes were sad as they stared into Richard’s grey ones. 

 

“I’m placing a horrible burden on you,” he said. “I’ve relied on you a lot, these past few years.” 

 

Richard’s throat constricted with emotion.

 

“Richard, did you ever find that girl?” 

 

He froze. 

 

“No,” he said, fidgeting uncomfortably under his brother’s gaze. 

 

“Richard, you may — I may have to ask you to . . .” 

 

Edward’s voice trailed off as he realised that now was not the time. Richard had made a promise to himself five years ago. He had promised to trust in Aphrodite’s word. To trust that when the time was right and true he would meet the girl as Aphrodite swore he would. He had not yet allowed himself to doubt that promise or to lose hope. 

 

“I won’t let you down Ned,” he blurted out. 

 

His brother smiled at him, though guilt continued to swirl in his eyes. 

 

“I never thought you would.” 

 

xi.

 

It is a cloudy day when Richard eventually arrived in Sparta a fortnight later. The clouds hung low in the sky as their ship pulled into the harbour. Richard surveyed the view ahead of him. On the top of the mountain that towered over the harbour, was the palace he had heard so much about. He could see the white walls glisten even from the distance. 

 

The city is quiet as they ride their way to the palace gates. The people’s expressions were wary as they stared at him, murmuring amongst themselves. The air in Sparta is dry, despite the sea being so close to the city. It is heavy in his lungs, made Richard feel heavy and tired. 

 

Richard knew not what he was expecting, but this was not it. 

 

— 

 

“The Prince’s rooms are in the West of the palace, and afford the finest views of the region,” the man informed Richard and Hastings. 

 

It took Richard a moment to offer his thanks. He was too busy observing the palace. It irked him. Everything was so quiet. There was no laughter or music. Only endless, echoing silence. The walls were all painted a muted white that made the place seem lifeless. 

 

_What a horrible place,_ Richard thought. 

 

When he was left alone in his rooms, he instantly went to the window that overlooked the city. The man did not lie — the view was splendid. It overlooked the sea and the city below, opening his eyes to the wildlife that lived beyond, the forests and shrubbery that grew wild on the hills beside the mountain. It wasn’t Troy, but Richard still found something appealing in its simplicity. 

 

He placed his hand on the wall beside him, leaned against it and frowned at the powdery feel on his hands. 

 

“The hell?” he murmured, staring at the white powder on his hands with confusion. His gaze went to the wall and his breath caught in his throat. He rubbed at the fading paint more, until the hidden picture was revealed. Hidden poorly under the paint was a picture of a naked woman. Even though the painting was faded, Richard could tell she was beautiful. He could admire the careful arch of her lips, the fullness of her breasts, the dark tresses of her hair. 

 

“What happened here?” he whispered. 

 

Those eyes — they seemed so familiar to him. 

 

“What happened to you?” he asked, to no one in particular. 

 

— 

 

Richard had been in Edouard of Lancaster’s presence for mere moments before deciding that he did not like him. He and Hastings have barely finished curtsying when he comes to the realisation that looking at the King makes his skin crawl in a manner he has never felt before in his twenty two years. 

 

“My lord,” he murmured appropriately. 

 

“My honoured guests,” the King drawled, clapping his hands together in delight. “Welcome to Sparta.” 

 

Richard took notice of the King’s expensive attire, at the jewellery that clung to his neck, his wrists. The thin gold band that was placed on his head. This man was a King, and he wanted to ensure that they never dared forget it. They must honour him, flatter him. Richard and Hastings exchanged a quick look, and though he did not want to, Richard began to ramble on about how beautiful the palace was, how the gifts they brought from Troy were no match to the beauty of Sparta. 

 

After they had finished presenting all of their gifts from Troy, King Edouard finally offered them the chance to sit down. Their chosen spots were close enough to the King’s table that they could speak freely without having to shout, but far enough to make sure they knew they were inferior. Richard glanced at the empty throne next to the King, and briefly wondered as to the whereabouts of the Queen. 

 

“My lovely lady has taken ill,” the King informed them, almost as if reading his mind. 

 

“We are very sorry to hear that and hope that the Queen will regain her health quickly,” Richard said smoothly. He could see Hastings look at him with approval and a part of him warmed with satisfaction at the realisation that he had not done anything wrong. Yet. 

 

Richard glanced around the room and saw that no one seemed surprised or alarmed at the news of the Queen’s ill health. _Perhaps she possessed ill health,_ he thought. But something told him that was not entirely true, if the gleam in the King’s eyes said anything. 

 

There was an aura about him, of such entitlement Richard felt uncomfortable, though he tried his best to ignore it. He owed it to Troy and to Ned to ensure that these peace negotiations went smoothly. They conversed only when the King spoke to them and since they were eating, Richard was left alone for the most part. He and Hastings offered their compliments to the King for such a spectacular feast as was expected of them. 

 

But in truth, Richard had difficulty swallowing it. When he had first become a Prince, he had struggled to digest the richness of the food of the nobility. But even then he could appreciate its flavour, the sweetness and saltiness, the texture of the exotic food under his tongue. But Spartan food was bland, to say the least. Tasteless. Richard glanced around the room, and took notice of the neutral colours around the room. The creams, the whites, the light feathers. Perhaps it was its stark contrast to Troy which made him lack the ability to see beauty in a place such as this. He had heard tales of Sparta from Ned and other travellers. 

 

He had been told it was a place of wildness — of wild beauty, in truth. A place where wild animals ran free and the colours were endless. Richard’s mind flashed to the covered mosaic in his room. It was like someone had come and tried to erase everything beforehand. Richard would not deny it, he was disappointed. 

 

“So,” Edouard of Lancaster began. He placed his cup on the table with a small clatter. “Your story is a strange one.” 

 

Richard took a drink from his cup to hide the smile that formed on his lips. He had been asked so many times to recount it he lost count, but never by royalty.

 

“I would like to hear it from your mouth.” It wasn’t a request. 

 

Richard nodded obediently and settled his cup next to his plate. He was keenly aware that the hall had grown silent, and realised that his name had spread — so had his story. It had never truly occurred to him — or he had never comprehended — that he would ever become _famous_ , for lack of better term. 

 

“It was a miracle of the Gods,” he began. His mind flashed to the scene in the woods. “I was taken from the palace by wolves —“ 

 

Richard was interrupted by the doors to the great hall opening with a loud groan. He rose to his feet a moment after the King and — 

 

_No._

 

_It can’t be._

 

He took a step closer to get a better look. 

 

A woman had emerged from the closed doors, followed closely by three handmaidens. The handmaidens were dressed in the typical cream chitons he had seen on the other courtiers, but the woman — the _Queen_ — was dressed in a chiton of soft purple, with brownish feathers lining the hem. Pearls adorned her left wrist. 

 

She was the only splash of colour in the room. 

 

She was — 

 

“My darling,” the King greeted and walked over to her. She stood in the centre of the room, a small smile gracing her full lips. “You are recovered.” 

 

It was almost unnoticeable, how she stiffened when he kissed her cheek. Almost. 

 

“Curiosity defeated my tiredness,” she responded. She turned her head to stare at Richard and — 

 

Richard took another small, unconscious step forward. He wanted to touch her. To hold her in his arms and never let her go. Because she was the girl in his dreams; the girl he had waited so long for. The girl he had given up promises of success for. 

 

Euphoria made his blood light and his heart rise to his throat. 

 

Richard felt his lips part as their eyes met and he waited for something, _anything_ to flash in her eyes. Even the tiniest hint of recognition. 

 

“Darling Anne, you must sit, please.” 

 

And then his euphoria was dying and he was crashing back down to the ground because she was a Queen she was married and he couldn’t — 

 

It was only when Hastings nudged him that he realised he was the only one standing. 

 

He sat down ungracefully, unable to truly comprehend these sudden turn of events. His world had been yanked out from under him. The only time he felt like this was when — when he first discovered his true heritage. 

 

“Prince Richard was telling us about his strange story,” the King informed his wife. 

 

“I’m sorry I interrupted you, my lord,” the Queen told him graciously. 

 

Richard had finally summoned his wits enough to reply when the room was suddenly overcome with bird’s chirping. 

 

“Those damned birds,” Edouard cursed. 

 

Richard was more focused on the small smile that played on her lips, one of fondness and nostalgia — 

 

“Are those your birds, my lady?” 

 

The words left his mouth before he could process them. 

 

Her eyes were wide when they snapped up to meet his. 

 

“Yes,” she replied. “My father used to let them loose around the palace —“ 

 

“One of his little indulgences,” Edouard interrupted impatiently. “Pray, continue with your tale Prince Richard.” 

 

Richard had to fight the urge to smack him, to beg the Queen to continue if only he could hear her voice once more. 

 

He cleared his throat and quickly ran his hand through his dark curls. 

 

“I. . . I was stolen from the palace as a child,” he started. “By wolves. It was by the grace of the Gods that I was not killed. A shepherd found me on the mountains, took me into his home. I was raised amongst sheep and horses. Taught how to be a farmer, how to run the land. That was my life for seventeenyears.” 

 

“And this man, he raised you as his own?” the Queen questioned, as though she couldn’t help herself. 

 

“Yes,” Richard replied, a warm smile played on his lips. His heart still ached when he thought of Agelaus. His eyes sought Queen Anne’s once again and his breath hitched at the look in her eyes. 

 

_Dickon,_ she whispered in his dreams. _Come._

 

He came. 

 

He was here. 

 

“He called me Dickon,” he blurted out, unable to help himself. He needed to know whether or not she recognised him. Whether or not she shared his dreams. 

 

“Dickon,” the King murmured. 

 

Richard continued. 

 

“Then one day, I saw my brother George and his men preparing for the city games by the beach. I challenged them.” Richard smiled at the memory of him and Francis. 

 

“And won?” The Queen questioned, unable to hide her astonishment. 

 

“Yes,” Richard affirmed. “My brother George took me to the games and there I fought my brother Edward.” He chuckled at the memory. “He would have killed me,” he admitted. 

 

“What stopped him?” 

 

Richard couldn’t help but stiffen involuntarily. He had no desire to discuss his distorted shoulder, especially to someone as vicious as the King of Sparta. 

 

He opened his mouth to offer some vague reply — 

 

“I heard you have a withered shoulder,” Edouard exclaimed. 

 

Richard lowered his gaze to the ground, his throat constricted painfully. 

 

“The Prince was born with a small defect in his shoulder,” Hastings said carefully. 

 

A shot of gratitude spread through his heart, and he gave him a thankful look. 

 

“I can’t see it,” the King said petulantly. 

 

“I’ve worn a brace on my shoulder to help hide the. . . the difference,” Richard told him. 

 

_You’re a Prince of Troy,_ he thought to himself, _grow up._

 

“Show me,” the King demanded. 

 

Richard’s posture straightened despite the weight of his request. His eyes flickered around the room, observing the hungry and curious expressions on all of their faces, and it was with a sudden start he realised that the rumour of his shoulder had spread as well. His status as a long lost prince was not the only thing he was known for. 

 

Richard felt his jaw tighten stubbornly as he stood up for all to see. He glanced at Hastings briefly, saw a glimmer of sympathy and approval in his eyes, and before Richard could let his pride overcome him, he pulled down the sleeve of his chiton. He unfastened the strap around his shoulder, held it tightly in his hands as he bared himself to the room. 

 

Whispers filled the room as he turned his body, showcasing the notorious shoulder. When he turned in the direction of the King, he lowered his eyes, unable to bear the thought of seeing disgust or apprehension in her eyes.

 

“Does it hurt?” the King questioned. 

 

Richard tried to swallow his distaste. 

 

“No,” he replied, careful to keep his voice even. It wasn’t exactly true. His shoulder ached very occasionally and the times it did were so random Richard knew not its cause. But when it did. . . 

 

“I’m glad to hear it,” the Queen said gently. 

 

Richard felt his neck flush at her words. He met her gaze and Gods, his heart skipped a beat at the sight of the kind look in her orbs, free of malice. Richard slowly began to redo the fasten and once he did so, he pulled up his sleeve. His body immediately felt cold, now that his bare chest was covered from her sight. He hadn’t even realised how he had warmed, how his blood had roared at the sight of her staring at him so intimately, with such gentleness in her eyes. 

 

Richard kept his eyes on her. 

 

“Well,” the King declared. “I propose a toast.” 

 

Hastings cleared his throat quietly, which caused Richard to return to reality and reach for his cup. 

 

Edouard of Lancaster’s eyes glinted dangerously under the candle lights; a hint of maliciousness and arrogance which would have alarmed Richard under any other circumstance. 

 

“To new beginnings,” he proposed, and raised his cup in the air. 

 

“To new beginnings,” Richard echoed. 

 

And with the taste of wine on their tongues and candlelight in their eyes, Richard could have sworn he saw a flicker of recognition in her wide, dark orbs. 

 

xii. 

 

When Richard returned to his chambers that night, more dazed than he had ever been before, he knew not what to feel. What to think. Aphrodite had finally fulfilled her wish and yet — 

 

Though Richard was happy — Gods, he was thrilled — to finally have met the girl who he dreamt of for years, there was a part of him that was angry. Angry that she was married, angry that he could not approach her as he wished. As he had desired to for so long. 

 

He fell asleep angry, and woke in the night to the distant sound of music playing. Confusion propelled him out of bed, had him reaching for a tunic to shrug on as he stumbled his way out of the room, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. Richard followed the sweet sound of the harps and lutes emanating from somewhere near the end of the palace. 

 

Richard wondered why the palace would host festivities without inviting their guest and sleepily came to the realisation that this must be a secret celebration of some kind. He crept forward as he caught a glimmer of light around the corner and discretely snuck a look on the side. 

 

The room was clouded with a haze of smoke, a thick sense of flowers and some kind of sugar aired throughout the room, snuck under Richard’s nose. 

 

_This,_ he thought. _This was the Sparta I’ve heard about._

 

There were topless girls dancing around seductively as the others giggled, and breathed in the smoke that made them all so happy. Richard’s eyes scanned through the room, and he was surprised to recognise some of Queen Anne’s handmaidens and, much to his surprise, Anne herself. 

 

Her cheeks were flushed a bright pink as she inhaled some of the smoke and tilted her head back so that her long curls tumbled down her back in waves. She giggled breathily as one of her handmaidens leaned over and whispered something in her ear. 

 

Richard smiled, watching her giggle like that, but his smile quickly evaporated as he noticed the bruises on her collarbone. 

 

_I’ll murder him,_ he thought. _I’ll murder him where he stands._

 

For no doubt this was Lancaster. Richard remembered how Anne looked beside her husband, how she had almost flinched under his touch. 

 

_Is this where you come to?_ he wondered sadly, staring at her intensely. _Is this your escape?_

 

Sadness made a lump form in his throat. He could not hold her or comfort her and — 

 

Richard darted back into the shadows. Something told him this was something he or anyone else besides Anne’s closest confidantes were meant to see. 

 

— 

 

Richard spent the next morning walking through fields of lemon and olive trees with Hastings and Edouard. For the most, he kept quiet, save for the necessary polite compliments and flatteries that the King so dearly loved. All Richard could think of were the bruises on Anne’s collarbone. He stared at Edouard of Lancaster’s hands, imagined crushing them under his feet. 

 

“What do you think, _Prince_ Richard?” the King suddenly asked. “What think you of Sparta?” 

 

“I find it very lovely,” Richard said, not entirely untruthfully.

 

“Truly?” the King replied, sounded thoroughly surprised. “I miss my real home. Greece was truly beautiful, cultured. When I came here to wed my Queen, the people were wild.” He shuddered, as though the memories were too painful. “I’ve done my best to tame it . . .” 

 

His voice trailed off as they came into view of the noble party. Several of them had cloths laid out on the floor as they ate and lounged around in the summer air. Richard’s gaze immediately found Queen Anne, saw she was laughing quietly with some of the girls he saw with her the night before. 

 

“But look at her,” Edouard said, as the sun’s rays hit her locks from behind and gave them a soft, golden glow. “She’s worth it.” 

 

Richard felt his heart swell painfully. 

 

“Anne!” Edouard called. 

 

She glanced towards them, her smile slightly fading as she rose to meet her husband. Edouard met her, gave her a wet kiss on the cheek. 

 

“Perhaps you will be so lucky with your own bride, Prince Richard,” Edouard said, and turned back to look at him. 

 

Richard met Queen Anne’s gaze for a brief moment before he turned away. 

 

“I hope so,” is all his brain would let him say. 

 

Edouard’s mouth twitched upwards; Richard could not tell whether or not he smiled or smirked. 

 

“Lady Margaret!” Edouard called out. 

 

Richard’s attention quickly fell to the woman who appeared out of nowhere. She was of short height and weight, her skin so milky white Richard thought her ill, with long raven hair pulled back in a long braid and black eyes. Richard was startled by the scorn in her eyes, by the sheer amount of judgement in them. He saw Hastings give him a pointed look out of the corner of his eye, urging him forward. 

 

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” Richard said cooly, and offered her a small, even smile. 

 

She did not return it. 

 

“We shall see whether or not you are worthy of my cousin’s hand over your stay here in Sparta,” Edouard commented, visibly enjoying the awkward tension. 

 

_What?_ Richard thought incredulously. _Marriage? Me? To her?_

 

His mind flashed back to Ned — the guilt in his eyes, his need to know whether or not Richard had found the girl in his dreams. 

 

“Of course,” he heard himself say. 

 

Richard was distantly aware of the King leaving with Lady Margaret and Hastings, but his mind was far too occupied to comprehend the situation. Marriage. To someone he had not met. Especially after he had just — 

 

“Alliances are often formed through marriage, Prince,” Queen Anne told him softly, sympathy swirling in her brown orbs. “Not all of us are free to choose like your brother.” 

 

Richard felt his lips twitch as he thought of the mess his brother’s marriage had made in Troy, all he had nearly lost because of it. 

 

“I know,” he replied carefully. “I was just surprised.” 

 

She smiled slightly, her expression slightly sad. It pained Richard an abnormal amount to see it, especially since he hardly knew her. 

 

“I’m not quite sure many approved of his choice,” Richard joked. “Love seems to cause a lot of trouble in Troy.” 

 

Queen Anne let out a small chuckle. 

 

“The Queen must be quite the woman,” she commented. “I’ve heard of her beauty.” 

 

_She’s nowhere near as beautiful as you._

 

“She is very beautiful,” Richard confirmed, unable to deny the truth. “But your beauty remains unparalleled.” 

 

Her cheeks flushed slightly as their eyes met and she realised that he was being entirely serious. 

 

“Thank you,” she murmured shyly. She looked ahead abruptly. 

 

“How did you sleep?” she questioned, moving forward slowly. Richard strolled beside her, and tried to keep his staring to a minimal. 

 

“Very well,” he replied untruthfully. 

 

Silence lingered between them, stalled the words in his mouth. 

 

_I’ve dreamt of you,_ he wished to say. _I feel like I know you even though we’ve barely spoken._

 

“Lady Margaret shall make you a good wife,” she said lightly. 

 

Richard stiffened. 

 

“Is a treaty with Troy that necessary?” he countered. Richard would not lie, there was a small sting of betrayal in his chest. Ned had not even told him or mentioned the idea. 

 

“Troy controls all the goods that come from Asia — spices, silks, weapons. Troy would be a powerful ally to have. An impressive ally for my husband to obtain.” 

 

Richard remained silent. 

 

“What?” Anne questioned, her voice hard. “Surprised I have a mind of my own?” 

 

“No,” he replied steadily. “Not at all, my lady.” 

 

Their eyes met once more, and his heart quickened as the stare lingered. 

 

“Anne!” Edouard exclaimed. “Come here.” 

 

Anne left for her husband and Richard was too busy dealing with his disappointment to notice that she glanced back. 

 

xiii. 

 

It was the next evening that Richard found himself spending time with his apparent bride-to-be. They had been eating dinner when King Edouard suggested that she show him what they called the ‘chamber of silks’. Richard learned quickly that it had been a gift from some Indian prince to Anne’s father in a show for her hand. She ended up refusing him. Now, after careful questioning on his own part, Lady Margaret was telling him of her life. 

 

“Sparta was never my home,” Lady Margaret told him. 

 

Richard made a sound of acknowledgement. 

 

“I was born in Athens, daughter to —“ 

 

Richard had to bite down on his lip. _I know,_ he wished to blurt out. He’d been schooled on the Great Greek houses for so long it was ingrained into his memory. 

 

“My son -“ 

 

That gave Richard pause. 

 

“Your son?” he questioned softly. 

 

The wind from the windows ruffled his dark curls as he stood in the middle of the hallway. 

 

“Yes,” Lady Margaret replied stiffly. Some emotion flashed in her black orbs, a look of such motherly fierceness Richard could not help but admire.

 

“He is heir to the throne of Lancaster if Queen Anne fails to provide the King with a child.” 

 

“And I suppose that pleases you,” he commented, careful to keep his voice even. Something within him could not help but bristle at her words; the undertones of entitlement and slightly malicious glee. 

 

“It will happen, if it is the Gods will.” 

 

Richard offered her a small, forced smile and continued to walk ahead with her by his side. 

 

“How long have you lived in Sparta then?” he asked, after the silence became stifling. 

 

“Since Prince Edouard became King of Sparta, once the Queen turned fourteen.” 

 

“Eight years is a long time,” he said. His eyes scanned her body, taking note of how she had accustomed to Spartan culture. The light, nude coloured gowns, the few feathers worn by the nobility, the shawl pinned to the back of her head, that tumbled down to the ground. “You must like some things about Sparta.” 

 

Lady Margaret smiled bitterly. “It is hard to feel at home anywhere without my son Henry, my lord.” 

 

Despite his frustration with the arrangement and his slight dislike for the elder woman, Richard could not help but pity her in that moment. 

 

“It’s alright,” he told her soothingly. He extended his arms out to her and enveloped her in his arms. Surprisingly, she melted into his embrace. 

 

“Thank you,” she whispered against his chest. “My son was but a boy the last time I saw him, now he has just turned twelve.” 

 

Richard did his best to hide his shock at how young she was when she bore her son; only twelve years of age. Barely ripe enough to be called a girl, let alone a mother. As she pulled away from him, it was with detached surprise that he acknowledged that she was pretty. With her dark eyes wide and vulnerable, lacking the scorn he was used to, and her pink lips flushed against her pale skin, Richard could not honestly call her unattractive. 

 

But the realisation did not please him. For a man who just became aware that his possible betrothed was more than a pious, opportunistic fanatic, Richard was rather serious. He could find little joy in acknowledging her beauty when he was enamoured with another’s. But his mind lingered on her son. He was not that younger than Richard himself; they had the same age difference as him and Ned, give or take a few months. 

 

“Lady Margaret.” 

 

They both jumped at the sound of Anne’s voice, colder than Richard had ever heard it. Judging by the surprise on Lady Margaret’s face, she had not heard her voice sound like that before either. Richard turned his body towards Anne and it was with a hint of shame that he realised what their embrace must have looked like. Anne stalked towards them, her brown orbs alit with barely disguised — 

 

Richard almost shook his head. She was not jealous. She could not possibly be. He was deluding himself, trying to see things that were not there. 

 

“My husband has requested your presence,” she told Lady Margaret cooly. 

 

“But the King requested I show Prince Richard the chamber of silks,” Lady Margaret protested, flabbergasted at the Queen’s lack of usual politeness and curtesy. 

 

“Indeed he did,” Anne retorted. “And now he wishes you to return. I will finish showing the Prince the silks myself.” 

 

Lady Margaret looked as though she wished to protest once more, but then thought better of it. Richard’s eyes lingered on Anne’s face and it was with a sudden skip of his heart that he realised that she had suddenly — inexplicably — become simply _Anne_ to him. Not the Queen. Not Edouard’s wife. But Anne, the girl who had held a hold on his heart for as long as he could remember. 

 

Lady Margaret left quickly, though not before shooting them one suspicious look. 

 

“Stop playing games,” Anne snapped, once Lady Margaret’s footfalls had ceased. “It may suit my husband to do so, it does not suit you, my lord.” 

 

Richard could not help but frown. 

 

“I was not playing any games, my lady,” he said calmly. “I was merely comforting Lady Margaret over her son, who may very well become my own step-son, as you know.” 

 

There was no mistaking the fury in her eyes. Richard felt a twinge of guilt at the cheap insult he had thrown at her, but quickly set it aside. 

 

“As you say, my lord,” she replied eventually. A soft breeze fluttered through the room, causing the silks to sway around them. They simultaneously glanced at the colourful fabrics which were illuminated by the several torches placed throughout the hall. Richard could not help but notice how they were secluded they were. The hanging silks obstructed them from view of anyone who could pass by. 

 

Anne’s small sigh filled the close space. 

 

“These silks were a gift from an Indian prince to my father,” she recited. Richard wondered how many times she had told the story and found he did not care. He wished to speak with her freely, to know if she was as haunted by him as he was by her. 

 

“Yes I know,” he interrupted. Their eyes met and — 

 

“Then there’s nothing more to say,” Anne said stiffly. “We must return to the dinner —“ 

 

“Not yet,” he objected. He took a step closer to her. “Those dinners are stifling. I know not how you manage to sit through them all.” 

 

Anne seemed startled by his growing closeness. 

 

“Be careful Prince,” she warned. “I am your hostess, you should not wish to insult all the work we’ve put in to please you on your stay in Sparta.” 

 

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” he said softly. 

 

“You learn to grow used to them,” is all she said in turn. “You have not been schooled in these things for as long as I. Duty — to your people, to your city — will become your master.” 

 

“It already is. Doesn’t change the fact that those dinners are stifling.” 

 

Richard paused a moment. 

 

“The only thing that brings any colour or life in that room,” he continued. “Is you.” 

 

Anne inhaled loudly.

 

“Do not say such things,” she responded sharply. 

 

Richard kept on staring at her expectantly. 

 

It was then he saw some of her walls begin to crack, some emotion begin to creep to the surface. 

 

“Don’t look at me like that,” she whispered. She took a small step backwards, almost as if his presence were becoming too much for her to handle. “I am your hostess and Queen of this palace.” 

 

“Yes,” Richard agreed quickly, his heart rising to his throat as courage quickened in his stomach. “And does that make you happy?” 

 

Anne blinked; once, twice. 

 

“It is no concern of yours how I feel,” she shot back, regaining some of the fire in her eyes. 

 

Richard smiled bitterly, a small sound of exasperation escaped his mouth. 

 

“Isn’t it?” he challenged. “For that is the very thing that torments my mind. Whether or not you are happy. For I do not think you are, my lady.” 

 

“And who are you to judge whether or not I am happy?” she questioned, though her eyes had slightly faltered. 

 

Richard sighed quietly. 

 

“Because I’ve seen you for years on that beach, asking me to come to you and here I am, my lady. I am here.” 

 

He saw a glimmer of recognition in her eyes and — 

 

“I know not of what you speak,” she replied. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. 

 

Richard took another step forward. 

 

“Don’t you?” he asked softly. He gently placed his hand on her cheek. Her eyes were wide as they watched his every moment, wariness making her look like a hunted deer. 

 

“Have you not waited for me, as I have for you?” 

 

Anne shut her eyes against his touch, against the sound of his voice. 

 

“Tell me I’m wrong,” he told her. “Tell me and I’ll go, I’ll marry Lady Margaret — I will do whatever it is you want, but I beg of you, tell me whether or not I am alone in this.” 

 

His face neared her own until they were both so close he felt her breath on his lips. 

 

“What gives you the right?” she whispered. 

 

Richard felt a small smile curve on his lips. 

 

“The Gods,” he answered, not knowing whether or not it was true and only caring that she wasn’t stopping him, that he had asked her to tell him no or stop him and she wasn’t, she _wasn’t._

 

She leaned closer and — 

 

“My lord!” 

 

Anne jumped away from him so quickly it was as though she were burned. 

 

“My lord!” the man repeated. 

 

Richard’s heart plummeted to the depths of his stomach as he followed Anne, still dazed from the sudden change in mood. Anne moved towards the balcony and searched for the cause of the commotion in the courtyard below. Richard followed her gaze at well, before his eyes finally landed on a man nearby the gate that led to the palace quarters. 

 

“Who are you?” Anne called out. 

 

The man turned to look at them. The torch he carried in his hand made his face seem like clay, due to the dirt and grim that clung to his features. 

 

“My Queen,” he replied, his voice heavy with sorrow. “I come from the King’s Mother. His father is dead.” 

 

Richard fought to not fall over with shock. Mad Harry of Lancaster was dead? _Dear Gods,_ he thought. He heard Anne gasp beside him but before he could say anything she brushed past him, heading towards the main hall once more. 

 

It took a few moments for him to grab his bearings, but he was soon close on her heels as they hurried back. 

 

_Anne,_ he wanted to call out. 

 

But he did not. 

 

When they returned to the main party, the rest of the nobility had already begun to file out of the room. 

 

“Your father,” Anne breathed, as she approached Edouard and embraced him closely. 

 

Richard exchanged a look with Hastings over the King’s shoulder. King Henry’s death meant a great deal of things to Troy. The death of the head of a House that sought their destruction, the death of the puppet their enemies had used. The ascension of King Edouard of Sparta to the Greek throne, and therefore uniting them under one country against Troy. 

 

“I must set sail to my mother,” Edouard declared. “Soon. I must be there for my father’s funeral rites.” 

 

“Let me come with you —“ 

 

“No, we have guests. You stay, entertain them.” 

 

Richard’s eyes flickered to Anne, noticed how her face was flushed, how she seemed desperate to accompany her husband to Greece. She met his eyes for a moment, before she quickly turned away. 

 

“My lord,” Hastings began. “If it is easier for us to leave —“ 

 

“No,” Edouard protested. 

 

He approached Richard and eyed him closely. 

 

“I’ll not hear it,” he continued. “Stay. Please. Continue to converse with Lady Margaret, my kinswoman. My father’s death represents the start of a new age. New alliances. ” 

 

Something glinted in his eyes, something that made Richard uneasy. 

 

“Of course,” he said. His heart hammered in his ears. “As you command.” 

 

Richard’s gaze went back to Anne and knew somehow in his heart that those next few days would shape life as he knew it, forever. 

 

xiv. 

 

Edouard of Lancaster left Sparta the following morn, with a small company of men as he rode off to the harbour. Clad in a mourning garb, Anne refused to meet Richard’s gaze. His eyes lingered on her, beckoned her to look at him, but to no avail. 

 

Anne retreated to her rooms after her husband left. 

 

Richard did not see her for three days. 

 

He spent his nights lying on an unfamiliar mattress, restless. Desire burned in his veins and words roared in his chest. He wanted to see her — he couldn’t see her and yet she was everything he thought of, dreamt of — she was _everything._ She had snuck under his skin and entered his blood and roamed through his veins and Richard knew not how to rid himself of the urge to see her, to hold her, to love her. 

 

For that was what this was, was it not? 

 

He was sure of it. Richard may not have known her favourite food or colour but he knew the steady heart that beat in her chest. Knew the curve of her smile and the colour of her eyes. Knew that whenever she appeared in his dreams he was the happiest he had ever been. 

 

But Richard still didn’t see her. 

 

She locked herself away and though Richard saw a few of her handmaidens fluttering about, he neither saw or heard any sign of her. Tension built inside him, setting his nerves on edge. His head pounded due to lack of sleep he — 

 

“Must you always look at her chair?” Lady Margaret snapped. 

 

Richard glanced at her, a sliver of shame circling in his stomach. They were sitting in the main hall, eating dinner quietly. The court was subdued in the wake of the absence of their King and Queen. 

 

Richard had been urged by Hastings to spend more time with Lady Margaret, and so he had forced himself to talk with her at the banquets and walk with her in the gardens. But his mind was elsewhere and he coloured with shame and hints of anger at the realisation that he had not hidden it as well as he hoped. 

 

“Men are fools,” Lady Margaret scowled, and took a long gulp from her cup. 

 

Richard rose to his feet so quickly his chair fell over. 

 

“We need to leave,” he exclaimed loudly. 

 

The Gods only knew what he would do if he stayed any longer. 

 

“Prince Richard, what —“ 

 

“We need to go,” he interrupted. His eyes flashed dangerously. “Now. Prepare the horses and the men. We leave tonight.” 

 

“We can not,” Hastings whispered harshly. “Richard — 

 

“I don’t care!” 

 

Hastings reared back as though he had slapped him. 

 

“We leave now.” 

 

— 

 

It had been a terrible idea from the start. 

 

When Richard and his party had tried to leave, nature conspired against them. The once peaceful skies had quickly become overcome with stormy clouds. The sky flashed with lightning as rain poured from above. Richard wondered which God he had offended to warrant such a clear disfavour of him returning home. 

 

“Richard!” Hastings yelled, after he had made another attempt to stir his horse forward. “Enough!” 

 

Richard shook his head. 

 

“I must leave,” he said. Water dripped from his hair, soaked through his clothes. “I can’t — I can’t stay here, Hastings. I can not.” 

 

Hastings shot him a troubled look. 

 

“If you try to board a ship in a storm like this,” Hastings told him. “You will drown, and kill all of us with you. Go and try and rest. Think about what you’re doing in the morning, and what that means for us all.” 

 

That struck a cord with Richard. 

 

He cast his eyes at the sky; at the silver streaks that painted the sky an ominous colour. The wind howled violently at his ears and tore at his clothes. He would not survive long in a storm like this. It would be suicide. 

 

“Alright,” he conceded quietly. “Alright.” 

 

xv. 

 

Richard had just finished changing out of his soaked tunic when there was quiet knock on the door. He sat upright in bed, and wondered for a moment if he had dreamt it. If he had gone as mad as he thought. His door creaked open and he reached for his sword as someone pushed aside the curtains. 

 

“Who are you?” he demanded. His eyes blinked rapidly at the sudden light that filled his dark room. 

 

He calmed when he recognised one of Anne’s handmaidens, though his insides stirred with curiosity. She smiled at him and raised a finger to her lips. 

 

Richard had thousands of questions on his lips and was about to voice them when — 

 

“She’s waiting.” 

 

Richard followed her without question. She led him down a path by the mountains near his chambers. The storm had begun to lessen by then, though the rain continued to pour down, soaking them within minutes. Richard stumbled as he walked the unfamiliar path, the only light being the lantern the girl had in her hand. 

 

Yet she was confident in her stepping. When Richard nearly tripped or slid on the wet ground, she carefully side stepped all obstacles. Admittedly, Richard’s mind lingered on Anne, on what laid ahead. He knew the risks, the danger and yet he did not care. Eventually, after Gods knew how long, the girl stopped. Richard squinted and noticed a small light emanating beyond a small group of olive trees. 

 

Richard moved to follow the light but was stopped by the sudden iron grip on his wrist. He glanced with surprise at Anne’s handmaiden and was even more surprised at the fierce, protective look in her eye. 

 

“He hurt her,” she said, her accent thick. “He hurt her in ways men should never hurt their wives. You are the first to look at her with the love she deserves. If you hurt her, I will slit your throat. Prince, or no.” 

 

She let go of his wrist. 

 

“I won’t hurt her,” he murmured. His heart squeezed in his chest. “I won’t. I’d rather die.” 

 

She — Veronique, he thought her name was — smiled. 

 

“I’m counting on it,” she replied. She walked back down the path without another word. 

 

Richard exhaled loudly and turned to look at the soft glow of light that beckoned him forward. He moved carefully, eager not to make any loud noises for fear of drawing attention to himself or worse, tripping somewhere and injuring himself outside the Queen’s chambers. 

 

For that was where he was, Richard was sure of it. The knowledge made him feel both powerful and weak. Happy and nervous. Yet there was this undeniable pull, tugging him forward, edging him on. Richard fancied it the pull of destiny. 

 

His breath caught in his throat when Anne finally came into sight. She was sheltered in a small wooden abode. White sheets hung from the tree branches, under the dim candlelight Richard could vaguely see flowers growing in the branches. The ground was covered by a thin mattress covered in large, fluffy pillows. _This was her escape,_ he realised, his heartbeat quickening. _This was her safe place._

 

It had Anne written all over it. 

 

He approached her quietly, almost as if she were an animal he was fearful of provoking. Water from the storm trickled down his face, his hair, his arms, dripped from his clothing, but he paid it no heed. His eyes lingered on her skin, devoured her face. The relief that fluttered through him at the sight of her after so long made his body relax. He had not realised how on edge he was, how frustration had knotted his bones together and lit his blood on fire. Her very presence soothed him, calmed him in a way he could not fully describe or comprehend. 

 

In a way he doubted few others had ever felt. 

 

“Why didn’t you leave?” she asked. Her voice was so quiet Richard barely heard her. 

 

“I tried,” he replied. His throat constricted with emotion. He wanted to touch her. His hands trembled with how much he wanted to. But he would only do it if she asked him to. He would not risk hurting her. Not ever. 

 

“You’ve made me go mad,” she whispered brokenly. The candlelight gave her skin a soft golden glow. “You’ve haunted my every thought. When I sleep, I dream of you, even worse than before. When I wake and look out my windows, you’re there. Smiling, laughing, calling me to you. When I shut my windows and lived in darkness for days you were still there. Haunting me. Loving me.” 

 

Richard felt his heart beat against his chest. 

 

She turned to look at him slowly, her eyes so torn it took his breathe away. 

 

“I couldn’t bare it,” she confessed softly. “Not seeing you.” 

 

“Neither could I,” he told her, once he had summoned the strength to speak. “Neither could I.” 

 

Anne’s lips parted as they stared at one another. 

 

“Anne,” he whispered desperately, her name a prayer on his lips. “Anne, I —“ 

 

“Shh,” she hushed, leaning forward to place a finger on his mouth. His eyes darted down to her lips and — 

 

Slowly, gently, they both leaned forward. 

 

Desire and passion possessed him entirely. All of the emotions he had forced under the surface sprung free with every kiss they shared, every touch she gave him. For they could not stop touching one another. By the time Richard had managed to peel off Anne’s white nightgown, his lips were so bruised they ached. The soft pitter patter of the rain had ceased. 

 

Not that either of them noticed. 

 

They were too enraptured by the soft feel of each other’s skin. Of how they felt under their hands. The noises they made. The pleasure they felt. The raw, undeniable passion that set their blood on fire and blinded them from all logic or caution. The only thing that mattered — the only people that mattered were each other. 

 

And so they took their time. As long as their passion allowed. 

 

“Anne,” he whispered into her skin. His hands sunk into her long curls as their bodies moved together. He pressed kisses onto whatever skin he could find — her chest, her collarbone, her firm breasts. He worshipped her skin, as she was something to be worshipped. His hands slipped down to her waist as her fingers dug into his unruly curls. 

 

“Richard,” she returned, bending down to kiss him as her body moved above his own. 

 

_I love you,_ he thought, as the pressure in his stomach grew stronger. _I love you I love you I love you I’m so glad I found you._

 

It was only when she whispered, “I’m glad I finally found you too” that he realised he had spoken out loud. 

 

— 

 

Richard woke up before Anne did. He spent a few moments admiring her lovely features, noticing how serene she appeared in sleep. Before he could stop himself, he pressed a gentle kiss to the side of her neck. His body purred with pleasure at the feel of her nude body beside his own. 

 

“Richard,” she murmured, her mouth curved into a small smile. 

 

Richard could not help but return the sentiment. 

 

“Come closer,” she grumbled. Her eyes fluttered open lazily. Richard chuckled as he shifted closer, and slung an arm around her waist. Richard kissed her neck once more, her collarbone, her cheek, her brow, anywhere he could reach. He moved on top of her, bracing his weight on his arms so that he did not crush her. She gazed up at him with a guarded expression. 

 

“Is this all right?” he questioned softly. Her hands had tightened almost painfully on his shoulders. 

 

There was a moment before she responded. 

 

“Yes.” She paused, contemplating her next words carefully. “I trust you.” 

 

His heart warmed at her words and Richard leaned down to capture her lips. 

 

They made love in a morning glow, the soft light from the sun fluttered through the shades and casted them in gold hues that were muted by the remaining clouds left from the night before. It did not take long before they reached their pleasure and afterwards, they nestled beside each other, soaking in the warmth they both provided. 

 

“What was it your shepherd father named you again?” Anne enquired curiously. Her hands stroked the curve of his chin, sending slivers of pleasure up his spine. 

 

Richard nestled his head deeper into the pillow and gazed at her lazily. 

 

“Dickon,” he replied, mesmerised by the happiness in her eyes. 

 

“Dickon,” she uttered. She frowned as she repeated the name, trying it out on her tongue so it became familiar. 

 

“Odd name, isn’t it?” 

 

Richard was used to George’s jibes — his family’s reluctance to use the name, their insistence upon using his full name. 

 

Anne shook her head as her cheeks flushed prettily with embarrassment. 

 

“I think it suits you better,” she confessed shyly. 

 

Richard couldn’t help but smile at her words and kissed her soundly. She returned the kiss with equal fervour, her hands rising to rest in his dark curls. _I could stay here forever,_ he thought. _I’d never leave this bed._

 

“It doesn’t remind you of my less than noble beginnings?” he questioned, after they parted for air. 

 

Anne gazed at him with a soft expression in her eyes. 

 

“I don’t care,” she said. Richard felt his heart stop. “You’ll always be the boy I saw in my dreams, no matter what they call you.” There was no trace of shyness in her eyes, only certainty. Only truth. Richard loved her even more for that. 

 

The sun’s rays began to flutter through the morning clouds, and they both simultaneously lifted the grey sheet over their heads, hiding them from the world. 

 

“I need to tell you something,” he said tenderly. 

 

Anne brought her hands down to rest upon his chest. 

 

“When I was a shepherd, I was visited by the Gods. Zeus and Hermes requested I picked who was fairer, Hera, Athena or Aphrodite. Hera offered me fame, Athena great skills in battle but Aphrodite — she offered me the chance to meet you.” 

 

Richard felt Anne stiffen with surprise. 

 

“I chose you,” he told her, before he kissed her swiftly, and pulled away before she had the chance to reciprocate. 

 

“What would possess you to make such a choice?” 

 

She was only partially joking. 

 

“The chance to meet the girl I believed to be the most beautiful in the whole world.” 

 

Anne giggled at his words, and shook her head. 

 

“And you thought that was me? I daresay you are thoroughly disappointed.” 

 

“No,” he replied instantly. “You are.” 

 

“You’re a fool,” she told him. She kissed him slowly, fondly, as though she were savouring every moment they had. 

 

Almost as if his thoughts had been voiced out loud, they heard voices in the distance. 

 

“My lord!” 

 

“My lord!” 

 

They froze at sound of his men calling for him. Richard’s mind damned them all to the deepest parts of the underworld, but his lips remained closed. Anne shifted away from him, and pulled the sheet down from over their heads. 

 

Richard’s eyes struggled at the sudden blinding light, but Anne shared no such sentiment. With a cool, detached air that expressed none of her peace before, she pulled her discarded white gown over her naked form. She tugged her long curls out of the hemline, and gently untangled them. Richard was blindsided by the loss of her warmth — of the feel of her body against his own. 

 

“You must go, my husband will have you killed if anyone finds you here.” 

 

She stared at the circle of trees that surrounded them. Her voice was limp and Richard ached to hear it. Richard slowly began to rise into a sitting position. The sheet pooled down to his lap, exposing his chest to the morning air. The movement caused Anne to finally look at him. 

 

“When will I see you again?” he asked. 

 

Anne lowered her gaze down to her lap. 

 

“After my husband returns? Perhaps never.” 

 

The words were a dagger in his heart. Now that Richard had met her — finally, after so long — and loved her, now that he had felt the warmth of her skin and tasted her mouth, he could not possibly leave her. He could not. He knew that with a certainty that terrified him. She possessed him entirely — stripped him of the logic and caution he was known for without blinking, simply by breathing. Richard loved her, and the thought of never seeing her again — 

 

“Come with me.” 

 

The words escaped his mouth before he finished thinking them. 

 

Again, with more certainty. 

 

“Come with me.” 

 

Anne stared at him with such astonishment Richard nearly blushed. 

 

The silence hung heavy between them and curled around their necks like nooses as the weight of his words fully hit them. 

 

“Are you mad?” she whispered incredulously. Her brown eyes grew glossy with unshed tears. 

 

“Come with me,” he repeated. 

 

He could feel the serenity they felt moments before begin to slip through his fingers like sand. 

 

Anne shook her head, her loose curls fell in front of her eyes due to its force. 

 

“I am Queen of Sparta,” she said. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. “I can not simply leave. My husband will —“ 

 

“Your husband is quite possibly the worst thing that ever happened to Sparta,” he interrupted, his passion and urgency so strong he could no longer contain himself. “He hurts you — abuses you. He is no true King —“ 

 

“Do you not think I know that?” Anne snapped, with more anger he thought she possessed. 

 

Richard bit his tongue and knew he had blundered with that remark. He sighed heavily, and shifted closer to her. His gaze lingered on the skin her white gown did not cover; he could see the marks he had left the night before, the skin he had kissed and worshipped under his mouth. The urge to touch her was too strong. 

 

He placed a hand on her cheek and gently caressed the smooth skin. 

 

“I’ve loved you,” he began. He heard her inhale sharply at that — and though it pained him to realise his words hurt her, he knew he had to finish them. “I’ve loved you since the first moment I saw you. We belong together, Anne. We do. I know it, and you know it too.” 

 

“You only think you love me because of Aphrodite and those _stupid_ dreams —“ 

 

“No,” he said, so forcefully she quieted instantly. “Those dreams are a sign from the Gods that we belong together. That we were meant for each other. I love you, Anne. Truly. More than you could ever know.” 

 

She leaned into his touch, even though her eyes were full of pain. 

 

“You’re wrong,” she said quietly. Tears trickled down her face. “This isn’t you, Richard. It isn’t. I won’t let a war start because of me. Our love is —“ she took a deep breath, as though she were trying to find the courage to speak. “Our love is wrong.” 

 

Richard grabbed her hand, the one that was positioned on her lap, and gently placed it over his heart. He could feel it beat against his chest. _Duh dum. Duh dum. Duh dum._ Slowly, steadily it went as they stared into each others eyes. 

 

As his heart beat for _her_ under their hands. 

 

“Does this,” he questioned, “feel wrong?” 

 

He leaned closer, still holding her hand to his heart, and came so near her face he could feel her breathing on his lip. 

 

“Come with me,” he whispered, and pressed a gentle kiss to the side of her mouth. “Please.” 

 

“Please don’t ask me.” He could feel how rigid she was in front of him. He kissed the traces of her tears off her cheeks. 

 

“Anne —“ 

 

She shook herself free from his hold so suddenly he fell back before she moved off the bed. 

 

“Go,” she said coldly, her back to him. 

 

“Anne — “ 

 

“Go!” 

 

This time, he was quieted at the forcefulness of her tone. 

 

“Or I’ll call the guards in here myself.” 

 

xvi.

 

Richard did not see Anne during those next few days. 

 

Strangely enough, it was easier the second time than the first. 

 

The first time, he had not know whether or not she felt the same. Whether or not he suffered as he did. Now, he did know. He knew that she felt for him the same, that she shared his dreams that — 

 

Richard changed his mind. 

 

It wasn’t easier. 

 

It was even harder because now he knew what her lips felt like against his own and the noises she made in pleasure and what it was like to see true, proper happiness in her eyes and knowing that he would never experience that again pained him more than he ever cared or wanted to admit. It was a slow, steady ache near his heart that made it hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to do anything really. 

 

But, under the clear light of day, once the initial rush of primal, immature passion had ceased, Richard  saw clearly how his offer — _what_ his offer would mean. More importantly, what it would cause. War. Bloodshed. Death. Gods, so much death. Richard, however much he loved Anne, had no intention of starting a war. 

 

He could not do that to Ned, his brother, who had just brought stability back to Troy after the initial wars. Or to his mother. His mother who still looked at him with guilt in her eyes for something that wasn’t even her fault. He could not — would not — do that to his own country. It was easy to think that, to believe it, to hold onto it, now that he could not see Anne. 

 

Richard clung to what his head told him like a lifeline and spend his nights in vain trying to ignore what his heart was screaming at him. Trying to ignore the tug in his stomach at the thought leaving Anne. 

 

Perhaps it was his preoccupation with Anne that made him less cautious, less observant than normal. When Edouard of Lancaster had left to go to his father’s funeral, he had insisted that they remain in Sparta. 

 

In truth, Richard had been less skeptical than he should have been. At first, his thoughts were dedicated entirely to Anne. On his ill-fated attempt to return home. Richard had ignored Hastings warnings that he would risk insulting the King, ruin the peace talks, ruin the talks of his marriage to Margaret Tudor. Richard hadn’t cared. 

 

But now, as his days in Sparta dragged on, Richard was becoming increasingly aware that Edouard was taking far too long to mourn his father and that he was meeting his mother, Margaret of Anjou, who was responsible for the deaths of the father and brother he never got to meet. Who hated the Trojans with a passion few had ever seen. 

 

He dared not make another attempt to return home, for further risk of causing insult, and instead kept to himself. Edouard himself had declared an alliance with Troy. His mother could not possibly talk him out of it. It wasn’t possible. At least, Richard tried to convince himself it was not. And yet, it was strange. Richard had not heard from Edward all of these weeks and the men were growing restless. They did not understand why they still lingered in Sparta, if only because their Lords asked them to.

 

Edouard had been gone for over a fortnight when a messenger finally returned to Sparta. 

 

They were all dining in the hall when the man arrived. The music emanating from the flutes and harps nearby came to a screeching halt as the doors opened. Richard recognised Lancaster’s sigil immediately. The man surveyed the awaiting courtiers and there was a darkness that glinted in his eyes when they landed on Richard and Hastings. 

 

“The King and the King’s mother will return to Sparta within two nights,” he declared. 

 

Richard stiffened. Words momentarily escaped him. Why in Hades would Margaret of Anjou come to Sparta? Especially whilst the Trojans were there? Her most notorious enemies. 

 

Richard and Hastings exchanged a look. 

 

This meant trouble and they both knew it. 

 

Richard returned his gaze to the messenger, took note of the bulking items in the man’s satchel, how his eyes scanned the room for the Queen. The messenger left in search of the Queen moments later, and the hall erupted into whispers, both excitement and anxiousness. Richard was not startled when he heard Hastings whisper close to him, “Edouard will not dare to harm you under his own roof. You have received the bread and salts. He has declared you both to be allies.” 

 

A grim smile formed on Richard’s mouth. 

 

“Maybe Edouard would not,” he mused quietly. “But Margaret would. This is an ill omen, Lord Hastings. We must somehow get word to Edward. If we leave now —“ 

 

“It won’t be possible,” Hastings agreed. “The ports will be full of men on the lookout for the Queen of Greece and the King of Sparta.” 

 

There was a moment of silence before Richard swore. 

 

“Dear Gods,” he said. “How can a man like that be allowed to rule over most of the Mediterranean land?” 

 

“Keep your voice down,” Hastings warned. “We need not give them a reason to harm us, or accuse us of treason.” 

 

Richard did not like it, but he bit his tongue nevertheless.

 

There was some truth in Hastings words. Edouard had declared them to be allies, had offered him all signs of goodwill. The offer and bread and salt in someone’s household guaranteed the guest’s safety, and would bring ill will on those who dared break the symbolic offering. 

 

They would not try and kill him. 

 

They wouldn’t. 

 

— 

 

Richard was awoken in the dead of the night by someone shaking him. As Richard opened his mouth to shout, a soft hand covered his mouth. 

 

“My lord, you must be quiet, for both our sakes!” Veronique hissed. 

 

Richard relaxed slightly at the sound of her voice. His eyes took a few moments to adjust to the darkness and though there was no light with her this time he could still see the way her eyes were wide with fear, her face taunt with desperation. 

 

“What is it?” he demanded. 

 

He sat up quickly, the sheet pooling to the bottom of his stomach, exposing his bare chest to the night air. 

 

“You must go,” Veronique told him quietly. “Now. Tonight.” 

 

Richard froze.

 

“They mean to kill me, do they not?” he questioned. His heart hammered in his ears. 

 

Veronique paused for a moment, as though she were debating what to tell him. 

 

“Anne thinks so,” she confessed, standing away from the bed. “The King’s letter to her was ambiguous, for lack of better term.”

 

A lump formed in his throat as Richard tried to make sense of what was happening. 

 

“Anne sent you here?” he asked. 

 

Veronique’s quiet laughter filled the room. 

 

“Who do you think is trying to save your life, my lord?” 

 

Richard inhaled sharply. 

 

“But we must not tarry, you must go now. Your men have already been sent down to the boats, including Lord Hastings —“ 

 

Richard moved out of bed without another word. 

 

“My lord, you must not be caught. The men at arms have been instructed to toss you in a cell if they catch you trying to leave.” 

 

“Shit,” Richard swore. 

 

He tossed a tunic over his head, grabbed his sword and knife and followed Veronique without another word. They took the mountain path down to the courtyard. They had to be quiet, so as to not attract attention, but they had to arrive at the courtyard before anyone else noticed that the other Trojan men were already down there, awaiting their Prince. 

 

Their breathing was the only sound as they stealthily moved down the path, which was covered in rocks and thorn bushes. Richard knew not how long it took — only knew that sheer desperation and adrenaline propelled him forward, made him overtly aware of his surroundings. Of the sharp rock near his right foot, of the thorny bush about to scratch against him. Richard, not for the first time, was running for his life. 

 

He heard Veronique exhale with relief at the sight of the stables. They snuck around the corner, their only cover being darkness and —

 

Richard halted in his steps at the sight of a cloaked figure. He shot Veronique a glance, though she did not seem disturbed. The figure turned around at the sound of their footsteps — 

 

“Anne,” he gasped, unable to believe it. The hand that had been reaching for his knife suddenly dropped to his side as he stared at her in disbelief. He moved forward, cupped her face in his hands. The soft light of the moon cast her features in silver. 

 

“Dickon,” she murmured. She pressed a small kiss to his right hand before she pulled away, tugging him forward. “Your men await you.” 

 

She hurriedly led him down the harbour, their hands enclasped as danger circled them. The sea was quiet when they arrived at the docks, quite unlike when he attempted to return home the last time. He could faintly se Hastings looking over from the ship, could almost see his eyes widen as he recognised Anne by his side. Richard did not care. 

 

“Go,” she said quietly, tearing her hand away from his. He could feel Veronique take a few steps back to give them so privacy. “Be safe. Return to Troy.” 

 

Richard’s heart was at war with his head — he knew he had to leave before it was too late, to save himself, his men — to warn his brother and yet — yet, he could not leave her. 

 

“I can’t leave you,” he said, voicing his thoughts aloud. “Not now. Not ever. Come with me, Anne. Please.” 

 

She shook her head. A small chuckle escaped her lips as she stared at him. Her eyes were wide and glassy. 

 

“I can not,” she replied. “It will mean war.” 

 

Richard shook his head — 

 

“Maybe it would before Anne,” he said fervently, “But not now. Not after this. After they were planning on killing me. War might happen anyway.” Another thought occurred to him. One that made his blood run cold. 

 

“He’ll hurt you,” he realised. “He’ll know that you warned me. He’ll hurt you —“ He made a sudden, unconscious step backwards towards the palace. He knew it with a certainty that made anything else fall to pieces. Edouard would hurt her because she helped him. 

 

“No,” he blurted out. Horror made him nauseous. “No no no. I won’t — I can’t —“ 

 

“I’ll be alright Richard,” Anne assured him. She sounded less confident than he knew she wanted. “He won’t hurt me.” 

 

“Don’t lie to me,” he said. He cupped her face with his hands. “Please don’t.” 

 

He felt something wet on his cheek and his heart squeezed painfully when he realised it was her tears. He tugged her into his arms, pressed kisses onto the crown of her head. 

 

“I’ll have saved you,” she whispered into his chest. “I’ll have given you a chance to live your life.” 

 

“It shall be an empty life without you,” he replied. 

 

Anne pulled away from him slightly, but quickly pressed her lips onto his. 

 

The sheer tenderness made his heart break in his chest and he knew that he would never find anything like this again. That if he left her now, he would leave his heart with her. That if he never saw her again, him escaping now would not have been worth it. 

 

“Please Richard,” Anne begged. 

 

He shook his head, his arms tightening around her. 

 

“I beg you please go!” she exclaimed. 

 

Arms suddenly tightened around him, pulled him away from Anne. 

 

“Richard,” Hastings pleaded, as his men forcibly pulled him back to the ship. “We must go now.” 

 

Richard fought as best he could but there were four maybe five men holding him back, tugging him farther and farther away from Anne. They only began to loosen their hold when they were on the boat. Richard broke free from their hold and sprinted to the foredeck. His eyes immediately landed on Anne, unsurprised to find her staring at him. 

 

The boat began to grow farther and farther. 

 

_Anne,_ Richard thought, his eyes finally lowering to gaze at the black sea. _Anne, my love._

 

_I love you._

 

His head snapped up at the sound of big splash in the water. His eyes searched for Anne on the docks, only to see Veronique standing there, waving wildly as she called out for her mistress. Richard’s heart rose to his throat as he finally saw Anne in the water, trying her best to swim over to them.

 

“Stop!” he cried out. 

 

He ran towards the men, yanked an oar out of one of their hands. 

 

“Wait!” 

 

He ran back to the side, kept his gaze on Anne and waved at her. He dared not shout, for fear of calling on guards to follow them or worse, shoot arrows down upon them. Hastings came beside him, wondering what he was fussing about and Richard felt him stiffen when he realised what Anne had done. 

 

“No,” he gasped. His hand latched onto Richard’s arm. “My lord, do not do this. You must let her go.” 

 

Richard’s eyes blazed as he glared at him. 

 

“Say that again and I’ll throw you in the sea,” he threatened lowly, meaning every word. Another splash soon followed Anne’s, undoubtedly Veronique following her mistress to the very ends of the Earth. When she reached the side, he grabbed her and pulled her up into his arms. 

 

“I couldn’t,” she whispered into his skin, shivering. “I can’t let you go.” 

 

Richard laughed into her hair, pressed kisses onto her skin. 

 

“I’ll never let you go,” he murmured. “Never, Anne. I swear it.” 

 

Veronique was helped onto the ship and finally, finally, they grew farther and farther away from Sparta.

 

Anne and Richard stood at the back of the ship, watching Sparta fade gradually from view. 

 

“What have we done?” Anne asked. 

 

Richard wasn’t sure who she was asking. 

 

“What have we done?” she repeated. 

 

Richard knew as well as she that they would follow them. That Edouard and his mother would follow with an army on their heals. 

 

“Whatever happens,” he said. “We’ll face it together.” 

 

Anne seemed to ponder this a moment. 

 

“Together,” she said. 

 

“Together,” he affirmed. 

 

_End of part one._

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So, I'm back again. Sorry it took so long, I was on vacation for a while and well, I didn't really write there. Thank you all so much for your response and for reading this monster of mine. I had to kinda mash both history and myth together - like Charles of Cilicia mirrors Charles of Burgundy. This story is a mixture of what happened in real life, myth, and of my own creating. Though admittedly, there are many scenes influenced by the show Troy: Fall of a City, and a lot of the plot does indeed come from there. I hope you all enjoy this chapter, only one part left to go! 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy. 
> 
> Please comment and leave your thoughts. 
> 
> Until next time,   
> Fionakevin073

 

i. 

 

The sun was shining the day they arrived on the beaches of Troy. 

 

The water was cold under his feet as he waded his way to the shore. Anne was already there. Her cloak bellowed behind her as the wind howled. Her delicate features were grave as she stared at the sand in front of her, before she looked up at the sky and closed her eyes. Richard was quiet as she soaked in the sun. 

 

Anne opened her eyes, turned to look at him. 

 

He was aware of movement in front of them, glanced ahead to look at Hastings, whose disapproval was plain on his face. Richard’s heart tightened at the thought of Ned, of the future ahead — 

 

He looked at Anne once more. 

 

His love for her rose in his throat, made him incapable of speech. 

 

Simultaneously, they reached for each others hands.

 

_Together,_ he thought. 

 

Anne smiled. 

 

— 

 

Anne leaned back against his chest as they rode into the city. Traces of her perfume floated under his nose as her hair brushed against him. The sweet aroma made him lean his chin on her shoulder as he held onto Agatha’s reigns. 

 

There were people in the city streets. Richard could see the fishermen with their fish, the merchants with their silks. A variety of smells bombarded them as Agatha settled into a slow trot. The smell was not unpleasant, but overwhelming. People stopped in their tracks at the sight of the returning party. Some of them waved happily at them, others cried out “The Prince has returned! Prince Richard!” 

 

But there was soon whispers. Curious whispers. The cries of jubilation stopped at the sight of Anne on his horse. 

 

“Who is she?” he heard some murmur. 

 

Richard glanced at the crowd briefly; their expressions were mixed. Curiosity, wariness, envy, even awe, for Anne was extraordinarily beautiful. 

 

“The most beautiful woman in the whole word,” he heard another murmur. 

 

Anne stiffened against him, turned her head back slightly. 

 

“It’s alright,” he murmured. His breath caressed the back of her neck. “We’re home.” 

 

ii. 

 

Hastings disappeared the instant they entered the palace. Richard escorted Anne to his chambers once she was reassured that Veronique had suitable lodgings to rest in. Strangely enough, he felt rather nervous. He had a peculiar and rather childish desire to impress her.

 

For Anne was not merely anyone, she was a Queen. 

 

“It’s lovely,” Anne said softly, as she surveyed the room. 

 

Richard had not been a Prince for long — had lived in the palace for less of that duration due to Warwick’s rebellion. When he had first been restored, rooms had been given to him. But his mother, perhaps noticing his clear discomfort in the place that was meant to be his home, took him aside and allowed him to survey all available rooms in the palace, even the ones that his now married sisters had once used, and choose the one he liked best. 

 

Fortunately, the one he chose (with Francis’s help) had not been used by any of his siblings. Now, it looked as he had left and liked it. The room was not overtly extravagant; the walls were a yellowish colour that caused a pleasant feeling to settle in his chest whenever he looked at it. There were a few white flowers painted on the wall, the emblem of the House of Troy, of his family.

 

Of course, he had the usual equipment for prayers, candles he burned everyday, the small miniatures that they all used in private prayer. There was only one God — Goddess, really — that he had singled out in particular for worship, one which had made George poke fun at him incessantly. Anne approached the table where the small statue of the women lay, observed the candles and small offerings that still lay there. 

 

“Aphrodite,” she said lowly. 

 

She didn’t look at him. 

 

Richard did not deny the fact, merely shrugged without shame. 

 

Anne turned, their eyes met across the room. He could see the redness in her eyes from lack of sleep, the dark circles that somehow made her eyes look even more haunting. Her chest rose and fell quickly as her eyes flickered away from his, looked to the bed, the chairs, his own personal items which he had left; books, papers, ink. 

 

Richard moved towards her, placed a hand on her shoulder. 

 

“It doesn’t feel real, somehow,” Anne’s eyes were clouded over, dazed, uncomprehending. “That I’m free. That I’m here.” 

 

His heart tightened in his chest, a protective urge surging through his chest, robbing him of all logic. 

 

“You’re safe now,” he vowed. He leaned his forehead against hers, let his hands fall down to her shoulders. “You’re home, love. You’re with me.” 

 

“Richard,” she whispered. Her hands tightened on his tunic, gripped him tight and pulled him closer. 

 

The sun’s rays fluttered through, made them golden. 

 

“I can feel it,” she murmured. “The sun. I couldn’t before. For so long, I — I couldn’t feel warmth. Only him. Only his hands, his touch. . .” Her voice drifted off, the memories too raw, too painful to speak of. 

 

Richard kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her chin, her eyes, her hair, anywhere he could reach. His arms wrapped around her, held her close. 

 

“Don’t cry, my love,” he whispered, once he felt wetness on his chest. “You’re safe now.” 

 

Anne pulled away, grabbed a hold of his hand, tugged him towards the bed. 

 

“I’m happy,” she told him. A small smile formed on her lips, one of such hesitance and wariness that it lacked any true warmth. “I’m happy,” she repeated, as she swiped at her tears.

 

Richard smiled back, and suddenly he too realised that they were safe, they were out of Lancaster’s clutches, that they were together that — 

 

And they were safe then, in their own little world, unaware of others, blind to the consequences and only aware of a warm, endless relief that took their breath away. 

 

iii. 

 

But their relief did not last long. 

 

After they had fallen into a light sleep, they were soon awoken by a knock on his door. They shared a look, and it was with a heavy heart that Richard climbed out of the bed, went to the door, aware that all of Troy knew what he had done; Ned, his mother, George, Francis — 

 

He took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders and opened the door to reveal, much to his surprise, Francis. Francis looked like he did when he was a shepherd, his curls in careless disarray, his eyes wide and red. 

 

“Dickon!” he exclaimed. 

 

Richard let him in without pause, thankful that it was Francis at his door and not Ned or George. The door shut quietly and Richard made haste to turn to Francis, listen to his friend’s babbling. 

 

“We heard of King Harry’s death — that Margaret of Anjou was coming to Sparta, we all feared the worse, Dickon, feared that you’d be killed. Your brother sent numerous letters to Sparta — couriers and what have you, but none ever returned. It is good to see you in one piece, Dickon, but we also heard that —“ 

 

Francis halted at the sight of Anne, his cheeks reddened. 

 

“Who. . .” 

 

His friend’s mouth parted as he stared at him, his eyes grew large and round like an owl’s. 

 

“Gods, Dickon,” Francis whispered. “What have you done?” 

 

Richard opened his mouth, closed it, unable to find the words to — 

 

“You must be Francis,” Anne’s voice called Francis’s attention to her, let Richard be. He shot her a grateful look, moved to her side. His heartbeat had started to slow now, settle in a regular rhythm. 

 

Richard had told Anne of Francis on the journey, had mentioned his childhood friend who had stuck with him through everything. He wondered briefly how Anne managed to piece together who it was, realised that Francis was the only one who still used the name Dickon freely when they were alone and that was how she knew. 

 

Anne smiled brightly at Francis, her brown eyes shining. His breath caught in his throat at her beauty, even now, and he cast a glance at Francis, saw the same look of awe that most men had when they encountered her. 

 

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” Anne continued, as though this was the most casual thing in the world. “Dickon has told me much about you.” 

 

At that, Francis’s eyebrows rose. He shot him a quizzical look, kept his gaze on Richard. But Richard was still staring at Anne, noticed her nerves had begun to show in her eyes. Their eyes met, held, and she took a deep breath, as though she were summoning all the strength she possessed, and said, 

 

“My name is Anne —“ 

 

“Dear Zeus,” Francis interrupted, his eyes widened even more. “You’re the Queen of Sparta.” 

 

It was more of an accusation than a statement. 

 

Anne visibly stiffened and shifted back as Richard moved forward, so he was now partially shielding her from Francis’s view. 

 

“She saved my life,” Richard said calmly. His grey eyes were stormy, fierce, ready to strike if need be.

 

He let the words settle for a moment before he continued. 

 

“I love her, Francis.” 

 

Richard’s voice was quiet as he told Francis of his dreams — of the scene in the woods with the Gods and why that was the reason he wanted to leave. 

 

When he finished, he reached for Anne’s hand, was relieved to find that she had already began to reach for his. 

 

Francis stared at him, gobsmacked, as though Richard had suddenly grown two heads. They were all silent, unwilling to say anything, not knowing quite what to say. Slowly though, the astonishment on Francis’s youthful features began to fade, gave way to a solemn expression. 

 

“Damnation Dickon,” he murmured. He rested a hand on his jaw. “I’d follow you to the ends of the Earth, you know that, but this is madness. This is — this is war.”

 

For the first time since Francis entered the room, a flicker of fear shined in Richard’s grey orbs. 

 

“I know, Francis,” he replied, his voice grave. “I know.” 

 

Yet still, he did not let go of Anne’s hand. 

 

Francis noticed that, his eyes lingered on it and he sighed. 

 

“You’ve gone mad.” 

 

Richard felt his lips twitch. 

 

“No madder than usual,” he replied. 

 

Francis looked as though he were trying not to smile, though soon they were both laughing. 

 

“Dickon,” he said, after their laughter had finally subsided. “The King has sent for you.” His eyes jumped to Anne. “Both of you,” he corrected. 

 

Richard looked at Anne, found she was already staring at him with a reserved expression. 

 

“We’ll come,” he told Francis. “Just a moment.” 

 

He stared at Anne, waited until Francis had left the room until he said anything. 

 

“I love you,” he told her. 

 

Anne did not reply. 

 

“They’ll want to send me back,” is all she said, as though she had not heard him. “And Francis is no King, Richard, he is not the one who has the power in this, neither do you. Francis was right. Me being here means war, Richard. It does.” 

 

It was unnerving, still, how the thought of being separated from Anne filled him with such dread and horror that he grew still, paralysed with such nausea and emptiness that stripped him of the belief of any future happiness or joy. 

 

“Never,” he swore fervently. “I swore that I’d never let you go, Anne. I meant that. Lancaster shall never touch you again.” 

 

“How I wish I could believe you,” she whispered. 

 

— 

 

Richard had rarely ever seen as large gathering of nobles in one place before, except at name day celebrations and when Ned had returned from exile after the war with Warwick. The throne room was crowded, almost unbearably so, full of whispers and gossip that he could barely comprehend. 

 

They all knew Anne was here; knew that he was the one to bring her. 

 

Richard saw Ned at the head of the room, sitting on his throne, his gaze cool, his features expressionless. His gaze flickered across the people that stood by Ned — _his family._ Saw George’s triumph and suspicion, his mother’s concern and disapproval; Hastings, who stood behind Ned, who made no secret of his desire to return Anne. Saw the Queen, whose expression he could not quite decipher. 

 

His throat constricted as he bowed, was only aware that Anne had done the same. Anne, who was a Queen in her own right, who was here, with him, because she loved him and he loved her. His courage grew as Anne glanced at him, warmth spread in his chest, settled near his heart. 

 

They both sat in the seats right across from the thrones, and Richard was suddenly fearless under his brother’s towering presence, who had always seemed like a giant in his throne, as the throne was designed for Ned to look down on all his subjects, especially on those who sat in those chairs. There, they voiced grievances, asked for aid, answered for crimes. 

 

For that was what Richard was doing now, was it not? 

 

Ned raised a hand, his coronation ring twinkled, and all at once the whispers ceased. 

 

“We were all relieved to hear of your safe return from Sparta, Prince Richard,” the Queen said, loud enough so the whole room could hear. “From all your reports, we were all confident the alliance negotiations were proceeding smoothly.” Her eyes darkened, went from a light sky blue to midnight-black. 

 

“So,” she continued, her voice heavy with sarcasm. “You can imagine all of our surprise when we heard you had returned with the wife of the man we sent you to negotiate with. I knew this was your first diplomatic mission, Prince Richard, but I thought you knew the difference between diplomacy and insult.” 

 

No one dared laugh. 

 

Richard was keenly aware of the silence in the room, of the way Ned’s hands were tightened. He felt Anne stiffen beside him, could practically taste her fear on his tongue. But she, and no one else, knew Ned as well as he. Richard alone saw the hints of betrayal in Ned’s eyes, the underlying hurt. Ned had trusted him to serve Troy, to follow orders, had risked another falling out with George in doing so, and Richard had let him down. 

 

A hint of guilt for hurting Ned formed in his stomach. 

 

“My King,” he began, looking directly at Ned, “If you would let me explain — “ 

 

“Lord Hastings has told us all we need to know,” the Queen interrupted. “The Queen of Sparta shall be sent back promptly, perhaps before her husband even realises she’s gone.” 

 

Richard bit down on the side of his cheek, strong enough that blood quickly filled his mouth. 

 

“If you dare,” he said lowly, turning his grey eyes on the Queen with such intensity none had ever seen on him before. “I’ll go back with her.” He leapt to his feet, anger boiled in his blood as he addressed his family. 

 

“You’ll never see me again,” he threatened. 

 

“Your grace,” Hastings began, startled by his ferocity. “If the Queen remains, it will mean war. It will. We must send her back. We will send her back, by force if need be —“ 

 

“She saved our lives!” Richard exclaimed furiously. He glared at Hastings, noticed with alarming bitterness the surprise that showed on his mother’s features. “I suppose you conveniently left that part out, my lord Hastings. How Anne warned us of Lancaster’s plan to butcher us in his own home when he returned from his father’s funeral with his mother, at risk of her own life.” 

 

Hastings stilled, but did not look away. 

 

“While I am grateful to the Queen,” he responded slowly, “that does not change the fact that she needs to leave. Immediately.” 

 

“You ungrateful swine,” Richard snapped. “He’ll kill her — _hurt_ her, because she helped us. You know that as well as I.” 

 

He looked around the room, saw sympathy in some faces, pity in others. 

 

Ned still remained quiet. 

 

“Lancaster meant to take my life,” he declared. He managed to regain his composure, smoke in the same measured tones that he usually did. “He and his mother reunited at his father’s funeral. They meant to start war anyway. Anne risked her life getting us out of there. If she had stayed, I daresay she would have been the first to face Lancaster’s and Anjou’s wrath. We all know them for the monsters they are. Troy has enough widows and orphans due to Lancaster to prove that. I ask — I implore you, my King, my Queen, to afford the Queen the same mercy that Lancaster never showed one of ours.” 

 

He sat down once more, suddenly seeped of all energy, keenly aware that he had bared his emotions before all, showed them all how much Anne meant to him. Richard raised his eyes, met Ned’s gaze and, before he could convince himself otherwise, said, “She’s the girl, Ned.” 

 

Ned remained silent, but Richard could see how his eyes widened fractionally. His heart quickened with hope — 

 

“How do we know she’s not a spy for Lancaster?” George questioned. 

 

Richard snapped his head towards his brother, distaste churning in his stomach at the gleam in George’s brown eyes. 

 

“What?” he said sharply. 

 

“How do we know that she’s not merely a spy for Lancaster? For all we know, they planned it all. Had her go to Richard’s bed, lower his defences, have him think she was a victim, all so that she could feed them information.” 

 

At Richard’s incredulous gaze, George shrugged. 

 

“It’s not too far fetched,” he commented flippantly. “If she’s so willing to whore herself —“ 

 

Richard leaped from his chair, sprung towards George with anger so blazing — so unlike anything he had ever felt before he felt like he was on fire. He was stopped only by a sudden grip on one of his hands — 

 

“Dickon stop,” Anne whispered hurriedly, tugging him back. “Please, my love.” 

 

He glared at George, noticed with twisted satisfaction the fright on his brother’s face and locked his jaw. Richard looked at Anne, his heart softened at the pleading, desperate look in her eye and nodded, allowing her to sit him back down. 

 

“Trust me,” she whispered, and let go of his hands. 

 

Anne rose from her seat gracefully, gently brushed the dust off the silks of her dress. Richard looked at her, his heart pounded away in his ears. Surprisingly, she turned not to Edward, but to Elizabeth. He frowned slightly. He and the Queen had a cordial relationship at best; a mutual interest in being loyal to Edward. Beyond that, there was only icy formality. Richard thought back to her biting remarks moments before, dislike surged up his throat. But he noticed that she called not only Elizabeth’s attention, but his mother’s, even if she did not address her directly.

 

“I heard, my Queen,” Anne began. Her voice echoed across the throne room, caught everyone’s attention. “That you rule Troy alongside your husband. That your marriage was one of love, of choice. That in Troy women are equals to men, free to chose and love and refuse.”

 

She halted, her nerves were plain on her face. 

 

“I humbly claim that respect now.” 

 

“You have a nerve, my lady,” his mother said. 

 

“I was married at fourteen against my will, to a man I had not met, and would never love. A man who taught me to expect the worse in those of his gender. I did not choose him, and never would have.” Her chest rose and fell as she caught her breath. 

 

“I do, however,” she continued, redirecting her gaze on his mother. “Choose to be with your son.” She then swept her gaze across the room, ensuring that all were focused on her. “I’m not a possession,” she said. “I’m a woman. I think, I feel, I love, and I’m here because I want to be. You may disbelieve it if you like, but I love your son. I did not mean to, did not want to even, but I do. Send me back if you choose, but that remains true, no matter what.” 

 

The room was deathly silent. 

 

Anne, having made her piece, sat down. 

 

Richard’s heart had swelled twice its size, a fierce, blinding pride rose in his chest. Anne caught his gaze, smiled gently at him. They reached for each other’s hands and linked their fingers. 

 

_Together,_ Richard thought. 

 

Emotion made his throat tighten painfully _,_ made him want to caress her cheek and hold her close. 

 

“Dear Gods Richard, of all the women you had to fall in love with,” Ned said, sounding rather resigned. 

 

He and Anne turned to stare at him. Of everyone, Richard had been most nervous of Ned’s reaction. For at the end of the day, even if the whole of Troy disapproved, it was only Ned who could give the order to send Anne back. It was Ned he needed to convince. 

 

“Better then Margaret Beaufort,” he replied, and sent his brother a grin that did little to hide his nervousness. 

 

Ned smiled at him grimly, acknowledged the secret engagement he had arranged for his brother without his awareness. Ned’s eyes flickered towards Anne, lingered on her face, appraised her openly. 

 

“My, she is as beautiful as you claimed Richard,” he told him. 

 

He saw Elizabeth shoot her husband an alarmed look, knew without looking that everyone else shared her surprise. Richard sent a quick prayer to the Gods, suddenly thankful beyond reason that he’d told Ned of his dreams all those years ago. 

 

Because Ned knew, knew how much he loved Anne, how he had known her, been haunted by her for years. Ned understood where the others did not. He understood, at least, the love he bore her. Ned returned his attention to Richard, tilted his head as he gazed at his youngest brother. 

 

“Leave us,” Ned commanded. 

 

No one dared voice any complaints and, soon enough, all the rest of the nobles shuffled out of the room, leaving only him, Anne, the King and Queen, Hastings, George and his mother still in the room.

 

“For the love I bear you, Richard, I’ll let her stay,” Ned said, once the door closed. 

 

What he said next dashed Richard’s hope, set him ill at ease once more. 

 

“For now.” 

 

“Ned, you cannot!” the Queen exclaimed. “It will mean war —“ 

 

“The damage has already been done,” Ned said. “Regardless of whether or not we send her back, it does not change the fact that she came in the first place. The insult has already been done, and I expect you all to accept my decision or suffer in silence.” 

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Richard saw George huff and roll  his eyes. 

 

“Does my decision bother you, George?” Edward asked. 

 

George froze, offered an uneasy reply to the accusation. 

 

“Ned, I fear only for the repercussions this will have for Troy.” 

 

Edward laughed. 

 

“Cause you’re such a saint, brother George,” he reprimanded. 

 

Richard saw George’s face grow red, his mouth opened and closed in outrage. Ned looked away from George without another word, searched for Richard’s attention instead. 

 

“Thank you, Ned,” he said, and offered him a small smile. “Thank you.” 

 

Ned did not smile back. 

 

iv. 

 

It was only in the safety of his chambers that they embraced. As he pressed his face into her neck and inhaled her scent, Richard allowed himself to realise how afraid he had been that he would lose her.

 

“Oh thank the Gods,” Anne whispered repeatedly. 

 

_Thank Ned, more like,_ he thought, but cared not to correct her, was simply content to hold her, to savour her skin against his own. It was not dark yet, but Richard did not protest when Anne pulled him to the bed, and simply lay down beside her. 

 

From where he lay, he could see the sun setting. He squinted against the glare, mesmerised by how her whole face was illuminated with golden light, enhancing her beauty all the more. 

 

“I never thought I would have this,” he confessed. 

 

Anne paused. 

 

“As a shepherd — as a Prince, I never thought I could love someone this much. That someone would ever love me.” 

 

Her lips curved upward, raised her fingers to gently touch his cheek. Almost on cue, his shoulder twitched, causing him to wrinkle his nose in discomfort. Anne’s hands moved from his cheeks to his shoulders. She rubbed the distorted shoulder gently. 

 

“Is this why?” 

 

Her breath stroked his lips. 

 

Richard lowered his gaze. 

 

“Oh love,” she murmured. “I don’t care. No one should. I love you and nothing shall ever change that. 

 

She didn’t say anything else, merely gazed at him, and that is how they fell asleep, exhausted by the trials of the day. 

 

— 

 

Awkward can not describe the situation. 

 

As Troy anxiously awaited the response from Sparta, from the whole of Greece, they all knew not how to to act. Richard was keen to stay with Anne in their chamber at all times, to shelter her from vultures like George, but some part of him knew that was a foolish choice, a cowardly one for sure, to hide in his rooms and ignore the consequences of his actions.

 

And yet, Anne was a foreign Queen, regardless of what brought her to Troy, and wherever she — they — went, stares followed. Richard knew she was aware of the blatant staring, could see it in her eyes, knew it brought her discomfort. The only person besides he who loved Anne without question was Veronique, who stayed with her mistress for as long as she was allowed. 

 

It was two days since Edward allowed her to stay that Richard was summoned to his brother’s chambers. Much to his surprise, it was his mother who came to tell him. 

 

“Mother,” he said, astonished, after he opened the door.

 

He heard Anne rise hastily from her chair, heard the loud scrape of the chair’s legs against the floor. 

 

“Richard,” she acknowledged, offering her youngest son a small smile. 

 

His insides tightened at the silence; his mother had been nothing but kind to him, since his return. Had been the mother he had always wanted. It pained him to hurt her. Truly. But Anne, well, Anne was more. 

 

“My lady,” Anne said. 

 

Much to Richard’s relief, the warmth in his mother’s eyes did not cool at the sight of her. 

 

“Richard, Edward would like to speak with you in his private chambers.” 

 

He cast an uneasy look at Anne, unwilling to leave her alone, subject to his mother’s disapproval. 

 

“Gods, Richard, I won’t eat her,” his mother said, sounding rather amused. “In fact, I thought I’d stay with Anne awhile, introduce her to Trojan culture, perhaps find her some new dresses.” 

 

Richard smiled at his mother, knowing that was an apology in and of itself. 

 

“Thank you,” he whispered, placing a gentle kiss to his mother’s cheek. 

 

He turned to Anne, was comforted by her warm smile, and left the room without any further urging. In truth, he had been waiting for this summon, desperate to talk to his brother in private and explain. It took little time to reach Ned’s rooms and before his courage could fail, he pushed open the door and entered the room quietly, let the door shut soundly behind him. 

 

Richard saw his brother’s back, spotted his golden hair that glinted under the sun’s rays. He was standing in the same place he did all those years ago, when he summoned him to his rooms and showed him what Troy was, where he first asked Richard for his loyalty. 

 

Without a word, Richard moved to him. 

 

“I’m sorry, Ned,” he said. He rested his arms on the balcony, his gaze sweeping over the city. “Sorry for the position I’ve put you in. Put all of us in.” 

 

From the corner of his eye, he saw Ned glance at him. 

 

“But not sorry you brought her here,” his brother countered. 

 

It was neither a question nor a statement, simply a fact. Richard would not deny it. 

 

“No,” he said lowly. “I’m not sorry for that.” 

 

“You once said that you’d never let me down, Richard, do you remember?” 

 

Richard nodded. 

 

“What if I said that the only way you’d never let me down was if you never saw Anne again?” 

 

Richard loved his brother, had been loyal to Ned through thick and thin, had risked his life for him more than once, and knew that his brother had been kinder to him than to George, who had been his brother for longer. But still, he did not hesitate in his answer. 

 

“I would do anything for you, Ned,” he replied. “Anything, except that.” 

 

“Alas,” Ned smiled grimly. “We are at an impasse then.” 

 

Richard grew stiff. 

 

“You do not believe George’s claims, do you?” he questioned. “That Anne is a spy, that it is all a ruse —“ 

 

He was stunned into silence when Ned laughed. 

 

“Gods in Olympus, Richard, anyone with eyes can see that the girl loves you. She looks at you like you gave her the sun and stars, like you would vanish if you disappeared from her sight. That Lancaster could and would hurt her, I do not doubt. I can see it in her eyes.” 

 

Richard could too. If Richard or Anne thought that her coming to Troy would relieve her of all the demons Edouard caused her, they were both mistaken. Richard noticed how jumpy she could become, how there were moments when she shied from his touch, her eyes lost to memories he did not share. 

 

“They’re coming aren’t they?” It was less of a question, more of a need for confirmation. 

 

Ned tilted his head, turned his gaze to the sky. 

 

“My spies report that they are at least one thousand ships ready to set sail. All the Kings of Greece have been called to arms for Lancaster’s cause. Him and his mother are claiming that you abducted the Queen, had been looking for war since you landed.” 

 

Richard shook his head with disgust, but a small sliver of fear had formed in his stomach, spread to his heart. 

 

“Lies,” he swore. “All of it.” 

 

He wanted to continue, paused when Ned shot him a look of amusement. 

 

“I know that, lad. Believe me, I know all too well the tricks of Lancaster’s house.” 

 

Richard paused, remembered the deaths of his father and elder brother, Edmund. 

 

“What will you do, Ned?” 

 

His brother smiled cooly. 

 

“It seems that fate would like me to claim a debt long overdue, Richard.” 

 

v. 

 

Clouds hung heavy over the sky the day that Lancaster’s army arrived in Troy. 

 

Richard watched from his balcony with Anne, could see the sails spread across the horizon. Anne was deathly pale, the bright green of her gown enhancing her lack of colour all the more. His mother had not lied; she had gotten Anne new dresses in the Trojan style; simple gowns, low cut, with various colours, unlike the usual Spartan dresses, which were cream or white. 

 

Just a few days ago, Anne had been showing him all of it. Had beamed with pride as she showed him the rouge his mother had given her, from the east, the creams made by Trojan hands. Just a few days ago, they had been happy. 

 

Now. . . 

 

Richard knew not what to say. The black and white sails took his breath away; his ears rang with the ringing bells. He had heard them once before, during the civil war with Warwick. It had meant death, doom, war. He never thought he would hear that sound again. 

 

“Dear Gods,” Anne whispered. 

 

Edward was the best battle commander Troy had ever seen. Arguably, he was the best in the world. When Richard had fought by his side against Warwick — when he had heard of Edward’s military prowess in the initial war against Margaret of Anjou, where he had defeated seasoned battle commanders when he was only a boy — Richard thought his brother invincible. Now, as the ships grew closer and closer, a small sliver of fear circled around his heart, made him doubt that fact for only a moment before his back grew straight. 

 

Troy would win. 

 

Richard had no choice but to believe that, to believe that Aphrodite was true in her favour, that their cause was just and Lancaster’s was not. He gripped Anne’s hand, caressed it gently. 

 

“We’re blessed by the Gods, my love,” he said convincingly. “Aphrodite will never abandon us.” 

 

In that moment, he believed himself. 

 

“How can you be so sure?” Anne questioned. 

 

“I just am,” Richard responded. “As sure as I was when I first saw you and knew I would love you more than anyone else.” 

 

Anne’s small smile did not reach her eyes. 

 

— 

 

Edward would not let him in the room for the negotiations. 

 

From a logic perspective, Richard understood why. Knew that his presence would provoke Margaret of Anjou and Edouard of Lancaster. If Richard were there, any chance of a peaceful outcome — however unlikely — would fail within a blink of an eye. 

 

In truth, Richard was confused as to why Edward had even accepted the meeting. He remembered his words: _It seems that fate would like me to collect a debt long overdue._ The mere thought of allowing the woman who was responsible for their father and elder brother’s deaths into Troy — the city she had sought to destroy — was unnerving. Yet Richard could not deny his curiosity to meet the infamous Margaret of Anjou. 

 

“She’s a monster,” Anne told him, once they had received news of the negotiations. 

 

She was curled up onto his chest under the covers. The night breeze cooled the room. 

 

“She didn’t want Edouard to marry me,” she continued. “My mother was not known for her fertility. Margaret was fearful that her son would be heirless — that no one would continue the Lancaster name.” A small, bitter smile graced her lips.

 

As far as Richard knew, Anne had never become with child during the duration of her marriage. It occurred to him how lonely she must have been, with a husband who did not love her and who blamed her for their lack of heirs. 

 

“Don’t be sorry,” she whispered. Her breath grazed his lips, the side of his cheek. “The mere thought of ever bearing his children made me ill. At least, after the first few years of no success he ceased to come to my bed. If I was fertile. . . he never would have stopped.” 

 

Richard tightened his arms around her, pressed a kiss to her forehead. 

 

“Maybe this time,” she murmured, snuggling closer. “It will be different.” 

 

Guilt made his heart drop to his stomach. 

 

“Anne,” he said quietly, “When I chose Aphrodite as the fairest, I did so knowing I would anger Athena and Hera.” He did not have to clarify what he meant; it was very unlikely Hera would ever forgive a slight like that. The Gods never forget, after all. 

 

Anne lifted her head, stared into his eyes. 

 

“I don’t mind if we don’t,” she said. “As long as I have you.” 

 

A few moments of silence passed. She laid her head down on his chest and he lifted his hand, began to gently stroke her long locks. 

 

“I’m scared for tomorrow,” Anne confessed. 

 

Edward meant to have her waiting outside the doors, in case Edouard asked to see her. Incase they needed her. 

 

Richard felt her tremble slightly, could taste her anxiety on his tongue. He hadn’t liked it — had liked it even less when he was told he would not be able to be with Anne. Richard only agreed when Edward told him he could watch from behind a screen. 

 

“You will be able to see everything,” Edward had assured him. 

 

It was what he told Anne now. 

 

“I’ll be there with you,” he said. “You may not see me, but I’ll be watching. No one will let him hurt you.”

 

“And Veronique?” she asked, “They won’t send her back, will they?” 

 

“No,” he told her. “I don’t see why they would. And if, for whatever reason, they try to, I’ll stop them. I promise you.” 

 

Anne sighed into his chest. 

 

“She’s been beside me for so long I can scarcely remember a time where she was not,” she whispered. “I owe her so much, Dickon. She’s like a sister to me.” 

 

“I understand,” he said. “Francis. . .” his voice trailed off. He knew he did not need to elaborate. While he loved Ned greatly — and loved George and the sisters he barely knew on principle — he had known Francis longer. Had gotten a taste of brotherhood long before he found his actual blood brothers. 

 

Anne grew silent and Richard would have thought she was asleep if not for the patterns she was tracing on his bare chest. 

 

“We’ll be alright, my love,” he said. “We will.” 

 

vi. 

 

The next day, Richard and Francis settled themselves behind the screen. Their view was slightly obscured by the patterns on the screen, which were designed to ensure that someone could look in without being noticed, but it was not a great barrier. They could both still hear clearly, could see well enough when they pressed against the screen, looked between the space of the two thrones. 

 

“If you had ever told me Margaret of Anjou would ever return to Troy. . .” Francis murmured. 

 

Richard let a small amused sound escape his lips. 

 

“You’re telling me,” he quipped. 

 

He drummed his fingers on his thighs, noticed the palpable tension in the throne room. Anne was waiting just outside the side doors, close enough that she could hear everything before she entered the room — if, she entered the room. His heart beat nervously against his rib cage, he placed a hand on top of his chest, as if trying to slow it down. 

 

He met Francis’s gaze, saw that his friend wanted to say something, but did not know what. Richard was grateful that he didn’t try and say something — 

 

The great doors opened with a large groan. Richard and Francis instantly turned to the screen, waited with baited breaths. Richard inhaled sharply at the sight of Edouard. A cruel smirk played on his lips as his eyes darted around the room. In the dull light, as Richard observed him, what little handsomeness he possessed in Sparta quickly faded. Objectively, he could see that Edouard’s features were handsome. He had a long straight nose, well proportioned eyes, no deformities to speak of. But the sheer haughtiness of his expression sapped any charm he might have possessed. He was the monster that haunted Anne’s dreams.

 

Richard felt his muscles tighten in anger but then — 

 

He knew without being told that the woman beside Edouard was Margaret of Anjou. Margaret of Anjou had once been famed for her beauty. When she first became Queen of Greece, there were some who said that men would willingly throw themselves into the sea just to see her smile. As he looked at her, Richard could see traces of that infamous beauty. Her long reddish curls had started to grey at the roots, her skin had begun to sag and grow taunt with stress lines. Her eyes were extraordinarily dark, the closest to black Richard had ever seen. 

 

On her head was a golden crown, with a large red ruby in the centre. Edouard himself was also wearing the crown he wore in Sparta, no doubt having inherited his mother’s taste for extravagance. _So this was the woman who almost ruined Troy,_ he thought. He glanced around the room, saw the barely concealed hatred on the Trojan nobilities faces. He paused when he reached his mother, took note of the hardened look in her eyes, the way her hands were curled into fists. 

 

None had forgiven Margaret of Anjou for the havoc she had caused in trying to maintain power of the Mediterranean sea and none had forgotten the brutality she had exercised over the Trojan people and their allies. The villages she had burned, the innocents she had killed, her soldiers free to rape and pillage as they saw fit. It was part of the the reason why they loved Edward so, for forcing her back to Greece and obliterating any chance she had of destroying Troy. 

 

Richard saw the grief that lingered in his mother’s eyes, and knew without a doubt that despite what Edward had claimed when he sent him to Sparta, there was no chance that the hatred between the two houses could ever be healed. 

 

“Gods,” Francis whispered. “It is like we are on the battlefield already.” 

 

Richard was inclined to agree with him. It was then he noticed the man standing beside Margaret, on her left. He was similar age to Edward, perhaps slightly older. He was not particularly handsome, but Richard was nonetheless arrested by the man’s green eyes, his only handsome feature. They were wise, calculating and hid any fear or hatred the man might have felt. 

 

“Jasper Tudor,” Francis gasped. 

 

Richard remembered the man from his lessons. He was uncle to Henry Tudor, Margaret Beaufort’s son, the woman he had jilted. 

 

“Welcome to Troy,” Ned announced, gesturing for them to sit down. It was the same place he and Anne had pleaded their case days ago. “I trust you all have received our gifts and diplomats.” Even though Richard could not see Ned’s face, could only see a glint of fair hear and the top of his brother’s crown, he could imagine his brother’s expression; cool, charming, alert in a way few expected of his brother. 

 

“And yet I see that you all came to Troy anyway,” Ned continued. “I wonder why that is.” 

 

Margaret scoffed loudly, her red lips twisted into a snarl. 

 

“Don’t act the fool, my lord. It does not become you.” Her accent was stronger than Richard expected, was different to most dialects he had heard before. Richard had encountered very few Franco’s. 

 

Ned laughed at her words. 

 

“I suppose you are right, my lady,” he replied. 

 

Edouard huffed, no doubt infuriated by the exchange. 

 

“Where is my wife?” he demanded angrily. “I want her back! Now!” 

 

Margaret placed a hand on her son’s shoulder and almost instantly he bit his tongue, shrunk back a little. It was with little humour that Richard realised the rumours of Edouard being his mother’s puppet were completely true. 

 

“Shh, my son,” she murmured. 

 

Margaret turned her black eyes onto Edward, glanced quickly at the Queen. 

 

“It would seem that all sons of Troy are ruled by what’s in their pants instead of what is in their head,” she said. 

 

Richard heard some gasps of outrage, heard the Queen inhale sharply at the insult. 

 

“You’re in my home Lady Margaret, be careful what you say,” Edward warned. 

 

“You would not dare harm us after offering us bread and salt,” Margaret replied cooly, though her face paled.

 

“No,” Ned agreed coldly. “I’m not you, or your son for that matter.” 

 

This time, it was they who were outraged. 

 

“I will not listen to these accusations!” Edouard exclaimed loudly. “I did not attempt to kill your wretched Prince — I had no intention of doing so!” 

 

“My lord, I never said you intended to murder my brother, you drew that conclusion on your own,” Ned retorted. 

 

Richard saw Edouard flush, caught in a trap of his own making. 

 

“I would not expect you to slaughter another one of my brother’s,” Ned added. 

 

Margaret smiled thinly. 

 

Jasper Tudor cleared his throat, drew all attention to himself. 

 

“Whatever your suspicions may be, King Edward, we come to you now as a means of negotiation. Blood does not have to be split. The war between Greece and Troy need not resume once more, my lord.” 

 

He paused, waited for Ned to speak. 

 

“Fair enough,” Ned allowed. “Tell us your terms.” 

 

Richard shifted uneasily. 

 

“Firstly,” Jasper Tudor began. “We want Queen Anne back. Returned to her husband safe and sound.” 

 

Ned did not say anything. Jasper, realising that his brother would not speak, continued on. 

 

“We’ve also written down payments that we deem to be appropriate, as a means of apologising for the insult inflicted upon his grace, the King of Greece and Sparta.” 

 

Ned let out an amused sound. 

 

“Tell me, King of Ithaca, what will you offer to repair the damage done by your house?” Ned questioned. “What will you offer to repair the loss of my father and brother? What will your Queen offer as an excuse to why she plotted to murder my brother, long before Queen Anne came to Sparta?” 

 

“Lies,” Margaret spat. “All of it. What proof do you have for such an accusation?” 

 

“Fair enough,” Ned repeated. 

 

For a split second, Margaret stared at him with surprise, before her black eyes quickly grew blank. 

 

“I want to see my wife,” Edouard repeated. “I don’t trust you not to have harmed her.” 

 

_You hypocritical swine,_ Richard thought angrily. 

 

Ned lifted his hand and shortly after the side door opened. Richard’s heart stopped in his chest at the sight of Anne. Her features were carefully drawn, her eyes free of emotion of any kind. He heard Edouard inhale loudly, knew that the sight of Anne, beautiful and unharmed and dressed in a blue Trojan gown was a provocation in and of itself. 

 

“Address me,” Edouard commanded. 

 

“What as?” Anne replied softly. 

 

Richard strained his ears to hear what she was saying. _Gods Ned,_ he thought, _don’t let him touch her._

 

Edouard’s eyes narrowed. 

 

“Your husband,” he said. “Your King.” 

 

Anne did not reply. Edouard rose from his chair, with Jasper doing the same. Maybe he sought to prevent Edouard from doing anything rash, from hurting Anne in front of all these people. 

 

“My lady, are you well?” Jasper asked, not unkindly.

 

Anne offered him a thin smile. 

 

“I’ve been afforded every hospitality,” she responded. 

 

“Did he force you?” Edouard asked. “Did he plan this?” 

 

Anne seemed taken aback by these series of questions; it sounded as though he were concerned for her. As though he missed her. 

 

“No,” she replied. “He did not.” 

 

And with that, all traces of concern evaporated from Edouard’s face. 

 

“So you came with him willingly,” he said, anger evident in his tone. 

 

Anne did not flinch. 

 

“Yes.” 

 

Edouard huffed loudly, took a threatening step toward her. 

 

“Why you whore — “ 

 

“I would advise you to watch your tongue,” Ned snapped. The guards moved closer to Anne, ready to shield and protect her if need be. Richard relaxed slightly, let out a quiet breath. 

 

“Don’t tell me how to speak to my wife,” Edouard barked. “It is no business of yours.” 

 

“On the contrary,” Ned retorted, “She is a guest in my home. She is the woman my brother loves. What you do or do not do to her is every bit my concern.” 

 

Edouard’s nostrils flared as he glared at Ned. 

 

“Forgive him, my lord,” Jasper Tudor cut in. “My King has been sick with worry for his wife, who he loves greatly. He aches at such a blatant betrayal, as any man would. His pride and heart are wounded. Queen Anne swore to love and obey him under the eyes of the Gods, now she has broken her vow.” 

 

“I wonder why,” Queen Elizabeth murmured. 

 

“What did I do to deserve such treatment?” Edouard asked Anne. 

 

Richard felt himself bristle. 

 

_Why you piece of —_

 

“We found love,” Anne told him. “That’s all. Maybe one day, when you fall in love, you’ll understand.” 

 

Edouard sneered at her.

 

“I will never understand,” he swore.

 

“It is a wife’s duty to obey her husband and bear him sons,” Margaret commented, her dark eyes flashing. “You have failed in both regards. I knew you would when I first saw you. You were never worthy.” 

 

“I was a child when you first saw me, Madame,” Anne replied. “And, as I recall, you were the one who asked my father for the alliance first.” 

 

“A weak man if I ever saw one,” Margaret spat. 

 

Richard saw Anne’s eyes flash. He knew that her father had died shortly before she married Edouard, knew that she was forced by her father’s advisors to marry Edouard. 

 

“Your mother too,” Margaret continued. “For giving birth to only one child — a girl at that.” 

 

“At least my mother’s faithfulness was never doubted.” 

 

Perhaps it was fear that made her say it, or a desperate desire to lash out, after so many years of heartache and cruelty inflicted by them. Though Richard was mildly surprised at her sudden nerve, it was nothing compared to the expressions of everyone else in the room. 

 

It was this astonishment that allowed Edouard to rush towards Anne and slap her across the face. 

 

Richard did not even think. 

 

Even Francis did not attempt to stop him, followed him instead. 

 

One moment he was behind the screen, and then somehow he was bursting into the throne room, murder on his lips and rage in his heart. By then, the guards had begun to move forward, someone was speaking loudly, he wasn’t sure. 

 

“Get away from her,” Richard snapped. He grabbed a hold of Edouard’s collar, used it to shove him several steps away from Anne. “You’ll never have her again, do you hear me?” 

 

He stepped in front of Anne, shielded her from Edouard’s view. 

 

“Is this who you left me for?” Edouard questioned shrewdly, his eyes blazing with fury “You slut —“ 

 

Richard attempted to rush forward, was stopped by Ned, who had risen from his throne after Edouard had hit Anne. 

 

“I suggest you leave,” Ned advised Margaret ruthlessly, his grip on Richard’s arm was painfully tight. “Take your son and get out of here. Now.” 

 

“Please, my lord,” Jasper Tudor urged. “See reason. Let there be no war.” 

 

This time, it was Queen Elizabeth who spoke. 

 

“Leave now,” she said, her voice as cold as ice. “And take your smooth tongue with you.” 

 

Ned smiled threateningly at them. 

 

“Before we change our minds and have you tossed over the city walls.” 

 

And that, that is how the war begun. 

 

vii. 

 

And yet, though war was declared, battle did not come. 

 

The Trojans waited inside their city walls. Waited for the Greeks to approach their gates and try to seize the city. They sent scouts out to no avail. Days slipped into weeks. 

 

It took a fortnight for them to realise their tactics. 

 

“They mean to starve us out,” Ned said hollowly. 

 

His face was drawn as he stared at his council. Queen Elizabeth placed a hand on her belly. 

 

“What?” she whispered. 

 

“After we gathered all the commoners and brought them into the gates, they burnt all the farms, the villages. They mean to keep us in our walls until we all wither and die.” 

 

“But we have grain from the recent harvest — and from before that,” Hastings said soothingly. “Troy will stand tall.” 

 

“Hastings is right,” Richard said quietly. “By the time we manage to run out of food, the Greek army will have run out its patience. They will want to go home.” 

 

“You think so?” Ned asked. 

 

“If Anjou and Lancaster refuse to meet us in the field, the men will grow wary. Impatient, even.” 

 

“You’re wise, little brother,” Ned murmured. 

 

He shifted in his chair, and Richard caught a small glimpse of his brother’s unease. 

 

“Leave us,” Ned commanded. 

 

Soon, it was only he and Richard left in the room. George shot him a look so full of venom Richard was momentarily taken aback. 

 

“I see that you and George have not bonded over your luck in desiring women who people do not want you to have,” Ned mused. 

 

Richard scowled slightly. 

 

“George has never liked me, Ned,” he said. “He’s never trusted me. This war proves his theory that I’m some kind of curse on Troy.” 

 

Ned laughed. 

 

“I see that hasn’t prevented your women from striking up an acquaintance,” Ned smiled. 

 

Richard took a sip of his wine, nodded his head in acknowledgement. It was true. Much to everyone’s surprise, despite George’s public distrust of Richard, his wife, Isabel, and Anne had begun to spend time together. There were many who blamed Isabel for the war with Warwick, for being a pawn in her father’s schemes for power. When her father had died and been declared a traitor, people had continued to be uneasy around her. She was the wife of the King’s brother, daughter to the man who sought to overthrow him. 

 

Isabel had been in murky waters for years. 

 

Anne was now in a similar position. It was not difficult to see why they would find some common ground. 

 

“I’m just happy that Anne has a friend,” he murmured. “The people do not know her. Blame her for something that isn’t even her fault.” 

 

“I suspect jealousy has something to do with it to,” Ned informed him. “Her beauty is. . . spectacular.” 

 

Richard shot Ned a look. 

 

“Careful Ned,” Richard warned lightly, “Your wife will not like to hear that.” 

 

Elizabeth had made little secret of her dislike of Anne. If she were to hear that Edward thought her beautiful. . . Anne’s life would be a thousand times harder than it already was. Not that the Trojan nobility were cruel or hateful towards her — at least not openly. But they were distant. Withdrawn. 

 

Richard was confident that in time this would change. They would grow to accept her, as Francis, Rob Percy, Ned and his other closest friends had done. Anne was too kind, too gentle not to love. She was not like Elizabeth, who awed with her beauty and alienated with her arrogance. 

 

“I suppose not,” Ned chuckled. “It is hard to please Lisbet, anyhow.” 

 

_You sleeping with any woman with a pulse shan’t help that,_ he thought. Richard dared not voice himself aloud. 

 

A comfortable silence followed; it didn’t last. 

 

“Margaret of Anjou may be a formidable battle commander when need be but she is rash, overconfident,” Ned told him. “That’s part of the reason why I managed to win the war the first time. Do not mistake me, she is not someone to underestimate, especially on the battlefield. What she did to Father and Edmund taught me that. Taught all of us that. But, she is not the one holding the cards anymore. Her boy is the one who is now King. She may control him like a puppet but he’s desperate to prove himself. Prideful and foolish. I highly doubt he’ll be willing to wait patiently until we come out.” 

 

“So then he comes,” Richard said. “And we fight. As long as they do not enter our walls, Troy has hope of victory, Ned.” 

 

“Not if we starve first.” 

 

Richard frowned. 

 

“But with the recent harvest and the palace storage we have months left until. . “ His voice drifted at the look on his brother’s face. 

 

“What is it?” he demanded, his stomach suddenly in knots. “What happened?” 

 

“There was a disease in the crops,” Ned said, his voice lacking any emotion. “It ruined more than half of it. What little harvest they managed to salvage will last us only a quarter of the time. I hadn’t thought it would matter; we would have had the chance to farm more, expand our land. Now, with Greek soldiers camping in the forests outside the palace, I doubt any of us will be able to leave without fear of death anytime soon.” 

 

Richard found it hard to breathe.

 

“Does the Queen know?” 

 

“She knows some of the truth,” Ned confessed. He gulped down the rest of the wine in his cup. “I didn’t want to stress her in her condition.” 

 

“What shall we do?” 

 

Ned drummed his fingers against the table. 

 

“I was thinking of reopening the tunnels under the palace. Our father had them built but never used them. His council convinced him it was too great of a risk, having them open.” 

 

“Would it not be a risk now?” 

 

“The Lancaster’s don’t know about them,” Ned commented, as though he were still contemplating the validity of his plan. “And I plan to dig further, until we’re closer to —“ 

 

“Meg,” Richard interrupted, his eyes widening. “Would her husband agree to help us? He has no love for Troy. He is even distantly related to Margaret of Anjou.” 

 

“I know,” his brother admitted. “But I see little other choice. Cilicia is the closest neighbouring city we can realistically reach through the tunnels, and even then the journey will be dangerous. We have to try, if nothing else. We can not have a starving army, Richard.” 

 

“How will you get word to Meg?” 

 

Of all of his surviving sisters, Richard knew Margaret the least. Eliza and Anne visited Troy more; came with their husbands and children often enough for Richard to grow close to them, even though they were married to foreign Princes that were farther from Troy than Cilicia. 

 

“I haven’t though of that yet, little brother,” Ned confessed. “My plan is not foolproof just yet.” 

 

— 

 

Even though Ned’s councillors protested, the reopening of the tunnels began shortly. 

 

The truth of the recent harvest had spread around the city, and soon enough everyone was placed under rations. Not that that stopped Ned or his Queen from feasting, even if their lavishness was slightly less than before. It shamed Richard, sometimes, to have so much and they so little. 

 

Anne agreed with him. She even went so far as to offer her own food to the people. 

 

Richard watched from the balcony as she handed out bread and other grain to those who approached her. His heart swelled with pride as he watched her. Anne looked as kind and regal as a woman could possibly be. A smile always graced her lips. Her complexion was flawless and rosy, her attire simple. She had forsaken the styles of Sparta, had privately confessed to Richard that it was Edward who introduced the confining gowns and feathers. 

 

“It was like I was a bird in a cage,” she had told him. “I like these styles much better.” 

 

She always glowed to Richard, but she seemed almost like a sun, standing there in a red dress, offering the people food. 

 

“Queen of Sparta,” Ned mused, later on that night. “Queen of hearts as well, as I’ve been told. Your wife is growing to be quite beloved, Richard.” 

 

Anne blushed when he told her what Ned said after he returned to their rooms later that night. 

 

“I highly doubt that,” she murmured. 

 

Richard laughed, placed a kiss on the crown of her head. She grew somber, wrung her hands with unease. 

 

“You’ll not try go to Cilicia, will you?” she asked quietly. 

 

“I know the mountains best,” he replied reluctantly. 

 

Ned had not said it out loud, but all his councillors constantly mentioned how none of the soldiers knew the mountains well enough, how they could get lost and stumble into Lancaster’s soldiers and reveal their plans under duress. Richard had volunteered at once, though Ned seemed reluctant to let him go. 

 

“I can’t lose you,” she whispered. She grabbed a hold of his hands, kissed each knuckle lightly. 

 

“You won’t.” 

 

He cupped her cheeks, kissed her with a passion he felt only for her. 

 

“I swear it.” 

 

viii. 

 

It was in the middle of the night that Richard and Ned snuck out of Troy. 

 

Ned had joined him despite great protest from everyone. Even Richard was wary to have Ned come. If something were to go awry, if they were to be caught. . . Troy would be lost without Ned. Ned had explained his reasoning, said that Charles of Cilicia would not be persuaded to help them by anyone other than the King of Troy himself. His pride and sense of entitlement were known throughout the world. No doubt he’d like it little if the King sent his little brother in his stead, especially the one who brought the Queen of Sparta to Troy. 

 

The Queen had raged at Ned, had shown more emotion in an hour than Richard had seen from her in years of meeting her. But still, Ned had not allowed himself to be persuaded. 

 

It was not only he and Ned, of course. 

 

Francis was joining them as well, as he knew the mountains as well as he did. Richard had been allowed to choose which men would join him for the mission, before Ned had decided to come, and Richard chose men he trusted. His friends. Francis, Rob Percy, Robert Brackenbury. He left Jack Howard behind, though he considered him a trusted friend. 

 

Anne would need someone to protect her, incase he did not return. Richard did not trust George or Hastings not to offer her to the Lancaster’s the instant his back was turned, despite Ned’s assurances of the contrary. 

 

It was with a heavy heart and a lingering kiss that he left Anne before first light. 

 

The journey was perilous, as one would expect. 

 

They were almost killed, more times than not. 

 

Their determination to reach Cilicia may have been foolish or suicidal, but it was not in vein. 

 

They reached Cilicia after almost a week of travel and the relief Richard felt at the sight of the city walls was so great he nearly collapsed. 

 

“So you still have some sense of direction,” Francis grinned at him. 

 

They all laughed heartily, even Ned, who knew Francis little. 

 

“It would seem you are as lucky in friendship as you are in love,” Ned joked, loud enough so only he could hear. Richard paused, took notice of the serious glint in his brother’s eye. 

 

“I know,” he said softly. “I am very, very blessed.” 

 

— 

 

Richard can barely hide his anxiousness as he plaid some card game Margaret tried to introduce him to. 

 

“Zeus’s truth,” Margaret sighed, eyeing her youngest brother with amusement. “You’re as strung up as a harp, Richard.” 

 

He offered Margaret a shaky laugh. 

 

“Gods, Meg, how can you be so calm when so much is at stake?” His anxiousness made him stand, pace around the room. Beyond the door to his left, Ned and Charles were negotiating a truce; grain and food supplies in turn for wealth and support when Troy won the war. 

 

“I’m surprised you care so,” Meg said honestly. “I know you little, brother. When I heard of your dalliance with the Queen of Sparta, I thought you a fool, despite how loyal you’ve been to Ned.” 

 

“If it comforts you, many thought the same.” 

 

“And now, risking your life to come here, on what may be a lost cause.” 

 

Richard halted in his steps, turned to gape at Meg with barely concealed surprise. Not once since their arrival had she allowed any of them to doubt that Charles would help them. She had been full of optimism. It was only now that Richard saw the first traces of fear and apprehension in his sister’s blue eyes. 

 

“Do you regret it?” she asked. “Bringing her to Troy?” 

 

“No,” he replied. “I regret that blood will most likely be spilt because of it, but if I had to do it all over again, I would make the same choice. I love her, more than —“ he faltered, sat down beside her. “More than I ever thought I could love someone.” 

 

“A love like that is dangerous,” she said softly. “That’s the kind of love that earns the wrath of the Gods.” 

 

Richard laughed loudly. 

 

_If only you knew,_ he thought. 

 

His laughter dissolved when the door opened and Ned came out. 

 

“Gods,” Margaret whispered. “My husband can’t have possible refused. He couldn’t have —“ 

 

But Richard knew better, saw the glint in his brother’s eyes before he even opened his mouth. 

 

“You’ve done it!” he exclaimed excitedly. “He’s agreed, hasn’t he?” 

 

Ned offered him a large smile and nodded, laughter escaping his throat. And then they were hugging, laughing with tears in their eyes because the people of Troy would not starve and their soldiers would be strong and — and there was hope. Such breath taking, boundless hope that all would be well after all. 

 

— 

 

“You’ll give Mother my love, I hope,” Margaret smiled at Richard. 

 

“Of course I will Meg,” he smiled back, moved towards his horse. She followed him, eager to understand the brother she knew so little. 

 

“Is it true that she’s planning on becoming a Priestess of Apollo?” she asked. 

 

Richard chuckled loudly, lifted himself onto his saddle. 

 

“She’s discussed it, though I think she fears leaving the court in Edward’s hands. She thinks he does not honour the Gods enough.” 

 

“Well, I can’t blame her for wanting to be closer to Priest Litos,” Margaret laughed. “His eyes are extraordinarily green.” 

 

Richard laughed too. There had never been a more pious and honest woman than their mother. The mere thought of her taking vows to get closer to a man was enough to make Richard want to cry with laughter. 

 

“Who is Litos?” he questioned, realising that the priest he was thinking of did not mask her description. 

 

Margaret blinked at him in confusion, before she quickly corrected herself. 

 

“Oh, I forgot he left Troy some years ago. Round about the time you returned, I think.” 

 

Nothing more was said about it. 

 

They left Cilicia in good spirits, eager to return to Troy with their good news. 

 

If only they knew what awaited them. 

 

If they only knew. 

 

ix. 

 

“You did what?” Edward asked, his voice hard. 

 

Richard was still numb with shock, unable to comprehend the smell of blood and death under his nose, the cries of the wounded soldiers. The shrieks of the ones left behind, mad with loss and grief. 

 

They had entered the city, only to find their soldiers caked in blood and dirt and their people hidden in their homes. 

 

George stepped back from Edward, his brown eyes full of alarm. Richard did not sympathise with him. His mind flashed to the wounded soldier he saw in the hall outside, with his arm half hacked off. 

 

“Ned,” George said placatingly. “They were outside our very door, practically begging us to go at them —“ 

 

“I left very specific intrusions that no attacks or raids should be made in my absence,” Ned interrupted. “And you took it upon yourself to lead _my_ soldiers to slaughter.” 

 

It was not a question. 

 

George paled under his brother’s murderous gaze. 

 

“Ned, please. How was I to know what that bitch of Anjou had planned? It was a logical choice, Edward. It was.” 

 

Ned’s lips twisted into a cruel smirk. 

 

“Was it?” he questioned coldly. “Tell me, brother George,  did you manage to expel any of the Lancaster forces from our forests?” 

 

“No,” his brother whispered meekly. 

 

“Did you burn any of their supplies?” 

 

“No.” 

 

“Did you kill anyone of importance? Edouard? Jasper Tudor?” 

 

George looked down at the ground. 

 

“No,” he admitted, very, very quietly. 

 

“So you mean to tell me that you led the Trojan army into not one but _two_ battles which you lost and gained nothing from, is that correct?” 

 

“Ned, please —“ 

 

“You went against the authority of the Queen and Lord Hastings —“ 

 

“I’m your brother!” George exclaimed. 

 

The murderous look in Ned’s eyes made even Richard fear for George. 

 

“That is starting to mean very, very little,” Ned sneered, moving close to George. 

 

Richard looked around the room, saw that the Queen and Lord Hastings would not come to George’s defence. They had apologised fervently when Edward had returned. The Queen had been ill, been on bedrest due to her pregnancy. Lord Hastings had tried to countermand George, he had told them, he had tried so hard. 

 

Though Richard liked Hastings little and trusted him less, his devotion and love for Troy was one he could not deny. 

 

This was George’s work — his folly. 

 

“Gods, George, why? Why in Zeus’s name would you do this?” 

 

His voice sounded weaker than he would have liked. Richard cleared his throat and hardened his gaze. 

 

“People died for _nothing_ ,” he said. 

 

What little regret George had in his eyes evaporated at his brother’s words. 

 

“You’re one to talk! You started this war in the first place!” 

 

Anger stirred in his chest. 

 

“I did no such thing,” he said, trying his best to stay calm. “Edouard and his mother were planning on murdering me, George.” 

 

“And what proof do you have of that? Perhaps you planned this whole thing, negotiated with the Lancaster’s to start a war, bring about the deaths of all of us so _you_ could be crowned King.” 

 

“By Zeus,” Edward murmured, his eyes round with shock. “Why I do think maggots roam in your head instead of brains.” 

 

Richard was stunned into an appalled silence. 

 

“You’ve brought dishonour on this house more than once,” Edward hissed. “My patience with you is now hanging by a very, very thin string.” Ned stepped away from George, as though lengthening the distance between them would lower his anger. 

 

“You know, George, Richard may have brought Anne to Troy, but _you_ are the one responsible for any deaths that came out of it until now.” 

 

George stood there, stammering. 

 

“The Greeks lost soldiers too, Ned,” George protested weakly. “They lost men —“ 

 

“Get out, George,” Ned said lowly. 

 

George flushed and left the room without another word. 

 

—

 

The instant Richard saw Anne, he flew into her arms, embraced her so tightly she said she could not breathe. 

 

“I’m so sorry, my love,” she whispered. “People tried to stop him, but he would not listen.” 

 

Richard buried his face into her shoulder, shook his head. 

 

“We secured the alliance,” he murmured sadly. “We would have been fine. Our army would have been intact and well fed. We would have attacked when the time was right.” 

 

He pulled away, was instantly alarmed by the redness in her eyes. 

 

“You’ve been crying,” he said. He traced the ghost of her tears with his finger. He felt his heart lodge in his throat, and knew without have to ask what she was crying for. It was the same reason he’d been so numb when he walked through the gates. Why it took him so long to collect himself. 

 

Guilt. 

 

“Oh my love,” he whispered. 

 

This time, it was she who went into his arms. She circled her arms around his waist, sobbed into his chest as he pressed comforting kisses onto her hair. 

 

“I heard their screams,” she said shakily. “I can still hear them screaming. I watched them get slaughtered. I stood on the battlements and all I could see was death. Death that I caused — that we caused. What did we do, Richard? Gods have mercy on us, what did we do?” 

 

She pulled away before he could reply. 

 

“People are dying and for what?” she asked bitterly. “So I could live? So I could escape punishment for helping you escape Sparta with your life?” She shook her head, swiped at her eyes. “They’re dead because of what we did, Richard. This would have happened regardless of what George chose to do. Even if he hadn’t, people would have died.” She gestured between them. “Our love is not a good enough reason for so many to die.” 

 

“Then what is a good reason?” 

 

Richard’s eyes were gentle as he stared at her. 

 

“If not for love, if not for a fight against injustice? What is a good enough reason?” 

 

Anne stayed quiet. 

 

“I love you,” Richard said. “Do you love me?” 

 

“Of course I do,” Anne whispered. “Gods help me, but I do. More than anything.” 

 

“Those men did not die because of our love, Anne. They died because of Anjou and Lancaster’s greed, because my brother George made the choice to lead the charge, because the Gods had us fated. We were destined to meet. You lived in my dreams, as I lived in yours.” 

 

“This war will end,” he continued. “It will. Soon. I promise you, Anne. And we will be on the winning side and all of this — all of this will stop. Whatever the future brings, we’ll face it together.” 

 

Anne met his gaze slowly, offered him a small smile. 

 

“Together,” she whispered, as though it were some kind of prayer. “Together.” 

 

x. 

 

Weeks slipped into months. 

 

The war raged on outside the city gates. 

 

The Greeks did not leave the shore and the Trojans did not leave the city. 

 

There had been four battles. 

 

Two wins on either side. 

 

But still, somehow, the war did not end. 

 

Whenever one house rose on the wheel of fortune, they would tumble down the next day. 

 

And yet, Troy won the past two battles. But the most important leaders of Lancaster did not participate, merely stayed on the Trojan beaches as though the battles were beneath them. It was almost like they were taunting the Trojans, luring them out just do they would die. 

 

Ned ensured that none of the Lancaster soldiers who approached the city walls returned to the sea, and soon it seemed that the smoke from the funeral pyres had permanently stained the sky. 

 

Richard had told Anne that the war would end, but there seemed no end in sight by the time the war almost reached its half year mark.

 

Until — 

 

Until — 

 

— 

 

“Richard,” Anne whispered, burying her fingers in his hair as he pressed kisses down her naked chest. “Oh, Richard.” 

 

He shifted her leg higher around his waist, groaned lowly when she squeezed him closer, tugged at his hair tightly. His worries of the night before had already begun to fade away. Now, they were completely obliterated, mere ghosts as his mind grew consumed with pleasure. 

 

And yet, the reprieve did not last long. 

 

After they both found their pleasure, Richard rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. 

 

“Don’t brood,” Anne whispered, once she had managed to regain her breath. 

 

Richard chuckled, shifted slightly so he could bring her closer, let her head rest on his chest. 

 

“I can’t seem to help it,” he mused, twirling a piece of her hair around one of his fingers. Anne sighed happily into his chest, seemed content to simply lay there and be held. And he, he was content to lie there and hold her. But still, his mind flashed to his discussion with Ned the night before. 

 

“It’s Ned, isn’t it?” Anne asked quietly. 

 

“Yes,” Richard admitted. “I confess my brother perplexes me. He’s never been one to shy away from battle — even seemed to eager for it, sometimes. But all the battles since the beginning of the war have been instigated by the Lancaster’s, even those slaughters George foolishly led the men into.” 

 

“He wants to cause as little bloodshed as possible,” Anne said. 

 

“I know that. I understand that. I don’t want any more death, either. But simply hiding behind our walls is not helping either. We can only rely on Cilicia for aid for so long, and we will run out of food at some point. It’s almost like he’s waiting for something; some kind of sign.” 

 

“Maybe he is,” Anne interjected. 

 

“Yes, but whenever one of his generals proposes a raid of some kind, Ned just shuts them down.” 

 

“Do you think he’s waiting for the Queen to give birth?” 

 

“Maybe,” Richard replied faintly. “Maybe.” 

 

Their piece was disturbed by a series of rapid knocks on their door. 

 

“Just a moment!” Richard called out. 

 

“Be quick,” Ned said, his voice echoing through the door. 

 

Richard and Anne exchanged a look of surprise at the sound of his brother’s voice. It was not like Ned to come to his chambers without word or notice, it was usually Richard who came to him. He was even more unnerved by the franticness of his knocks. 

 

It took little time for he and Anne to change, and they had not a moment to spare to make themselves look more presentable for the King. 

 

“What is it?” Richard asked anxiously, once he had opened the door. 

 

Ned was holding a piece of paper in his hands. 

 

“I just received this from Margaret of Anjou,” he said. 

 

Anne gasped with surprise, placed a hand on Richard’s arm. 

 

“She’s proposing single combat to decide the end of this war.” 

 

Richard’s heart started to hammer in his chest. 

 

“Who?” he asked, though deep down he already knew the answer. By the way Anne suddenly held onto him tighter, he could tell she did too. 

 

“You,” Edward replied instantly. “Against her son. If you win, they leave Troy and let Anne stay. If they win, Anne is returned to them and Troy must pay reparations.” 

 

“Is it to the death?” Richard asked. 

 

“Yes.” 

 

“It’s a trick,” Anne protested. They both turned to look at her. “Margaret would not risk the life of her son unless she was confident he would win. They’ll have something — _he’ll_ have something.” 

 

“They’ve allowed us to dictate the terms,” Ned told him quietly. “We could enforce a code of honour.” 

 

“It almost sounds too good to be true,” Richard said, sounding as dazed as he felt. 

 

Ned’s lips curled up in agreement. 

 

“Listen, Richard. . . I came here directly. I told no one except the people in this room what this letter contains. I want the choice to be yours, and yours alone.” 

 

Something glinted in Ned’s eyes, something he could not quite decipher. 

 

“Dickon,” Anne murmured. “Please.” 

 

“I have to,” Richard said loudly. He lifted his eyes to meet hers, his heart ached at the panic and desperation in her eyes. “If there’s a choice to win this war without anymore bloodshed, I’ll do it.” 

 

“I guess it’s decided then.” 

 

Ned leaned over, placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. 

 

“You’re a man of honour if I ever saw one, Richard,” he commented. 

 

There was something hidden in Ned’s eyes, something very akin to guilt and hesitance. 

 

“I won’t let you down Ned,” Richard said so passionately he nearly flushed. 

 

Ned smiled thinly. 

 

“I know you won’t,” his brother replied. “I know. . . Dickon.” 

 

He left without another word. 

 

“You can’t,” Anne breathed. Her gaze was plastered on the ground. “Please, Dickon. Please. I can’t lose you.” 

 

“You won’t.” 

 

Richard moved towards her, placed a hand under her chin to tilt it upwards. 

 

“He’ll have something,” she whispered. Her hands clutched his shoulders tightly, as though she feared he would disintegrate if she let him go. “Something that will take you away from me.” 

 

“I also have something,” Richard caressed her chin. “Something he’ll never have again.” 

 

xi. 

 

_Aphrodite,_ Richard thought, staring up at the cloudless blue sky. _Help me on this cause._

 

The wind howled, made the tent flaps shudder against its weight. 

 

He gazed across, saw Edouard, Jasper Tudor and Margaret of Anjou standing together. He knew they were talking but did not dream of trying to hear what they were saying. 

 

“Richard,” his mother called out softly. 

 

He turned to her, offered a shaky smile at the nervous expression on her face. 

 

“My son,” she murmured, when he moved closer to her. 

 

His mother was not a woman open with her affection, but as she stroked his cheek gently, he knew this was the closest she’d ever get to saying _I love you._

 

“So much I would have done differently,” she breathed. “So much I still have to tell you —“ 

 

“You’ll have that chance,” Richard interrupted gently. 

 

Her eyes softened a little as she offered him a nod. Richard glanced to the side, saw Ned, Francis, George and Anne awaiting him. He took a deep breath and moved towards them. 

 

“Brother,” George said, as he walked by. 

 

Richard could not help but stiffen; if George was going to insult or tear him down now — 

 

“Good luck.” 

 

Richard felt his lips part with surprise. The sudden rush of affection he felt for George was surprising; _I’ll have a chance to try again,_ he thought determinedly. _I can make things right with George, try better to get close to him. I can. I will._

 

“Thank you,” he replied. 

 

George offered him a curt nod.

 

And then, the hardest parting of all. 

 

Anne. 

 

Without warning, she encircled her arms around his neck, placed her fingers in his hair. 

 

“Come back to me,” she whispered into his skin. He pressed his face into the space between her neck and shoulder, inhaled her scent. She still smelled the same as she did when they first entered the city

 

“I will,” he promised. 

 

She pulled away first and Richard — if he held onto her for one more moment he would not want to fight, would just want to stay there and hold her until their bones turned to ash. But then Ned was talking to him, steered him away from Anne and towards Edouard. 

 

“Thank you, Richard,” he said quietly. “I don’t believe I’ve ever said that to you. Thank you, for everything.” 

 

And then he was alone, staring at Edouard as the sun beat down on his face and the future hang in the balance and — 

 

“Dickon.” 

 

Francis. 

 

How could he fight to the death without talking to Francis? 

 

Francis was the only one who hid his anxiety from Richard, who instead looked at him with confidence and optimism instead of dread and sadness. Francis was the only one who was confident he could win. 

 

“He might be taller, but you’re faster,” he said. “If you can get his legs, injury him there, he won’t be able to move. It’ll be over before you can even blink.” 

 

He offered Richard a wide smile. 

 

“Come on, if you could survive against your brother. . .” 

 

Richard chuckled, momentarily forgot his nervousness. 

 

“You can win,” Francis said heatedly. “You _will_ win.” 

 

“What if I don’t —“ 

 

“No,” Francis refused to let him finish that thought. “Don’t think like that. If you do, you will lose. And the Gods won’t allow that.” 

 

“Isn’t everything in the Gods hands?” Richard responded.

 

Francis clapped him on his back. 

 

“Trust the Gods and their wisdom, Richard. You’ll return to Troy alive and well. You’ll be with Anne. I know it.” 

 

“You’re one of the few who think so,” he said. 

 

Edouard had begun to approach him, his sword drawn and ready. 

 

“If I didn’t give up on you before, I’ll not do it now.” Francis grinned. “I rather like the benefits of having my closest friend being a Prince.” 

 

“Well then, I’ll make sure to win just for that,” Richard jested. 

 

And with a flare of warmth in his chest and Francis’s confidence reassuring his heart, Richard withdrew his sword and grabbed the shield offered to him by Francis. He brought the shield close to his side, his heart hammering away in his ears and gripped onto his sword tightly as he approached Edouard. 

 

They exchanged a series of quick blows with little heart to them. Each time their swords met Richard felt his heart jump in his chest. He felt like he did at his first battle. Weary, slightly fearful, determined. 

 

_Enough,_ he thought finally. _Think of Anne. Think of Troy. You have a war to win. Aphrodite will guide you._

 

He tossed his shield to the side and lunged towards Edouard with such swift energy Richard’s opponent stumbled back due to its sheer force. Edouard finally managed to stop his onslaught of hits, tried to send a punch to Richard’s side but Richard saw it and — 

 

Darted to the side and skilfully brought his sword against Edouard’s with a large _clang_ before he withdrew. The fight proceeded in flashes and cuts and Richard was flying, Richard was aware of every movement, every breath because he was fighting for Anne and Troy and — 

 

He pushed forward and ducked down, managed to cut Edouard at the back of his knees. 

 

“Ah!” Edouard cried out, and fell onto the ground. 

 

_Now,_ Richard thought, his heart seizing in his chest. He wasted little time, brought his sword down with all his might only to have his blow blocked by Edouard’s sword. Before Richard could blink, Edouard threw sand in his eyes which made him cry out in pain and stumble back. 

 

He blinked rapidly, was barely able to see Edouard rise up. His disorientation made him stumble backwards, rendered him incapable of fending off Edouard’s sudden hold on his shoulder. 

 

“You’d kill me, would you shepherd?” he snarled. “There’s someone you have to meet first.” 

 

Richard managed to grab a hold of himself, sent a well aimed punch into Edouard’s chest causing him to break his hold. His opponent moved a few steps back and stepped to the side, allowing for a man to appear behind him, standing besides Margaret. His robes were long and grey, covered every inch of his body besides his face. Even then, Richard was slightly startled by the sheer greeness of his eyes. It was almost unnatural, how green they were. 

 

“I am Titos,” the man declared. “Former High Priest of Troy, worshiper of Apollo.” 

 

Richard felt his world slow. 

 

“What is this?” he demanded. His voice was too weak for anyone to hear. 

 

“The day you returned to Troy, I knew you would bring it nothing but doom. The Gods declared so at your birth and the Gods never forget.”

 

Richard’s breath hitched in his throat

 

“You’re cursed, Prince Richard,” the priest said. His green eyes held no cruelty, only regret as he stared at him. “The Gods have cursed you since the moment you left your mother’s womb. When I offered the Gods a sacrifice after your birth, the blood ran black.” Richard heard sharp inhales from behind him; all knew what black blood meant. Destruction, death, suffering, ruin. 

 

“No,” he whispered. He felt his heart slow in his chest, grow numb with horror and disbelief. “You’re lying.” His grip on his sword loosened, his arms felt unnaturally heavy. 

 

“As long as you live, Troy is doomed,” the priest continued. “You will bring the end of your house, the death of all those you hold dear.” 

 

Richard’s breath caught in his throat and stayed there. 

 

“And you thought you’d been stolen by wolves,” Edouard taunted, taking obvious satisfaction in his opponents misery. “Your parents had you taken away to be killed and covered it up. You’d be long dead if not for your shepherd father taking pity on you and showing you undeserved mercy.” 

 

He felt bile rise up his throat. 

 

“No,” he said again. Richard turned to stare at his family, uncaring of the fact that he left his back open to Edouard. He exhaled sharply when he noticed his mother’s tears, saw she was unable to meet his eyes. He glanced at Edward, numbly observed how his brother looked deathly pale with shock and guilt. _Gods, it’s true,_ he thought wildly, a small wounded sound escaping his throat. _Oh Gods, what a fool I am. George was right. Oh Gods, he was right._

 

Richard looked at Anne, whose eyes were wide with astonishment and fear. Tears trickled down her face. 

 

_I’ve failed you,_ he thought, his eyes trained on her face. _I’m so sorry, my love. I’m so sorry._

 

Richard was not aware of Edouard’s movements until he saw the look on Anne’s face. 

 

“Richard!” she exclaimed warningly. 

 

He managed to turn quickly enough to block the blow with his sword. But his movements were sluggish, his mind worn out and his emotions in disarray. Richard had as much energy to fight as he did to swim to Sparta. His spirit had been shaken, his firm belief of everything he knew had been destroyed. The world as he knew it had been ripped out under his feet, and now he was forced to fight in front of the woman he loved and the family that betrayed him in the worst way. 

 

The family who was doomed to fail as long as he lived. 

 

As Richard’s energy plummeted, Edouard’s grew stronger as he took advantage of Richard’s shock. He slammed his sword against Richard’s without mercy, afforded him no time to absorb this rapid turn of events and smiled with malicious satisfaction when the sheer force of his blows against Richard’s sword brought him to his knees and sent his sword flying. 

 

“The mighty Prince,” Edouard mocked, “Who thought he could steal _my_ wife and live happily ever after.” 

 

“Make them stop!” Anne yelled from behind them. Richard could not see her, but he heard her move forward, heard her struggle against a guard’s hold. “Please don’t kill him. _Please._ I’ll come willingly! I’ll — I’ll do anything just please don’t —“ 

 

“Shut your mouth!” Edouard yelled. His sword glinted under the sunlight, made Richard’s eyes squint. “He’ll die in front of you, just as you both deserve, you treacherous whore.” 

 

Richard tried to summon the strength to move. Some of his shock had eased at the sound of Anne’s distress, at the knowledge that he would be killed in front of her. He was distinctly aware of a desire to spare her that pain, knew without question such an act would haunt her like a ghost for the rest of her days. 

 

He looked around for his sword but before he could even blink Edouard moved towards it, kicked it even further from Richard. 

 

“You’ll die now,” he said. 

 

Richard trained his eyes on the floor. Anne’s desperate pleading grew louder and more frightened. 

 

_I’ve failed you,_ he thought. _I’ve failed us all and I didn’t even know it._

 

“Please!” Anne cried. “I beg you.” 

 

Richard’s heart throbbed painfully in his chest but something peculiar began to happen as Edouard raised his sword above Richard’s head. His emotions numbed, made him only aware of the hot sand on his knees, the sun beating down against his scalp. 

 

_Richard,_ a familiar voice whispered in his head. It was a voice he’d heard only once but never forgotten.

 

“Aphrodite,” he murmured through frozen lips. 

 

_Run._

 

Before he could process his actions or wonder where his sudden surge of strength came from, he had turned onto his back, sent a sharp kick at Edouard’s legs and tossed sand in his eyes. 

 

_I’ll die,_ he thought. _But not here. Not in front of her. I’ll not do that to her._

 

And then he ran like his life depended on it, because it did. 

 

xii.  

 

Richard had not been in the mountains for years, and yet he still knew them like the back of his own hand. Knew the path and the rocks and the moss and the streams. He knew where to hide, it was an instinct installed in his blood, had not been washed away since his time in the city. 

 

The sun beat down on his back, dirt quickly caked his skin. He was no longer a Prince or a shepherd, he was like an animal. He was hunted. He simply ran as fast as he could, until the world was a mere blur around him and everything but the ground beneath his feet faded away. 

 

It was instinct that propelled him forward. He was not in control of his movements, of his body. His brain was still numb with shock. It was like a hook had been put inside him and the line was now pulling him forward towards — 

 

It took him two weeks to stop running. 

 

He slept so little he did not recall whether or not he actually _did_ sleep. 

 

His feet were blistered and bloody — his face caked with dirt and dry splotches of blood. His lips were deathly pale and dry with thirst. In may ways, it was like he had unknowingly come to the only place where he could get any answers. 

 

The place he had called his home for so many years of his life. 

 

Richard was vaguely sure that the Greek soldiers would not follow him so high up the mountains for fear of getting lost, so any worry he has of putting the villagers in harms way is fleeting. Though maybe that’s because of the recent revelation. 

 

The ache in his heart when he saw Agelaus from behind was familiar but not surprising. 

 

He moved forward, the crackle of leaves and rocks under his feet echoing in his ears. 

 

It hurt to move — hurt to _breathe._

 

“Who are you?” Agelaus whirled around, revealing an axe in his old, withered hands. “Get away I say —“ 

 

“Father!” How easy it was, how natural after so many years, to call him that. “Father, it’s me.” 

 

Agelaus’s eyes widened at the sight of him. He dropped the axe to the ground ungracefully. Eyes lingered on Richard’s face hungrily, before they narrowed at the state of him. Taking in the blood, the dirt, the defeat in his eyes. 

 

“Come on,” Agelaus murmured. Richard jolted at the sudden presence of a hand on his arm. “Get inside.” 

 

— 

 

Everything had stayed the same inside the hut of Richard’s childhood. 

 

The poorly made pillows, the makeshift beds, the ceiling made of gathered branches and long leaves. And yet, it felt smaller than he remembered. He almost felt like he was suffocating, sitting in there. But it was there that his emotions began to stir inside him, now that he knew he would live for at least a few more hours. 

 

Betrayal crippled his heart, made it hard to swallow the water Agelaus thrusted at him. 

 

The silence hung heavy on his head, curled itself around his throat. Richard cleared his throat, tried to speak — 

 

“Don’t,” Agelaus said. “Rest. Save your strength, Richard.” 

 

It felt unnatural, hearing that name on his tongue. 

 

“Dickon,” Richard corrected pleadingly. “Please. I’m Dickon here.” 

 

Agelaus didn’t say anything, merely directed him to his bed. 

 

It was only later Richard noticed that Agelaus kept the two beds. That both were still unmade, almost as if Richard had been living there all this time. As if he was waiting for him to come home. 

 

Richard was not long in finding sleep, and when he woke he could instantly tell that it was night. It took longer than he would have liked for his eyes to get used to the darkness. He had grown used to the steady use of candles at Troy; had gratefully abandoned the practice of ceasing to do any work the instant the sun set cause he could not see. 

 

But Richard’s steps quickly grew steady; he still knew this hut like the back of his hands, reached the door with little to no obstacles. Agelaus was sitting by the fire. The same fire pit Richard and Francis had sat by all those years ago, where he first voiced his plans to leave, to go searching for Anne. 

 

He sat next to Agelaus, observed him quietly. His hair had greyed even more, left no trace of the dark tresses Agelaus used to have. His face had more wrinkles than he remembered — a poorly healed scar on the side of his nose. It was now that he realised how old Agelaus truly was. It showed in his face, in his shoulders, in the slight tremble of his hands.  Only his eyes had remained the same. 

 

“Did you know?” he asked quietly. 

 

Agelaus sighed heavily. “Who told you?” he replied warily. 

 

Richard felt himself tighten, felt some of the emotions he’d shove away begin to surface. 

 

“Priest Titos. I was fighting Edouard of Lancaster in single combat,” he recited mechanically. “To the death. I almost won and then — then Priest Titos appeared, told me the truth.” _That I’m a curse, that I’ll bring doom to everyone I love. That my parents sent me away to have me killed and my brother — the one I pledged my life to, almost died for — probably knew about it._

 

“I fled from the field,” he breathed. His eyes grew wet and he angrily swiped at them, beyond furious that his body was betraying him. 

 

“Why?” 

 

Richard shot Agelaus an exasperated look. 

 

“Because I couldn’t do that to her,” he admitted brokenly, his voice full of self loathing. “I could not have my head chopped off in front of her — in front of my family.” For some reason, he didn’t feel the need to clarify who _her_ was. The words _my family_ left a bitter taste in his mouth. “Why didn’t they tell me?” 

 

He wasn’t necessarily speaking to Agelaus. 

 

“Your mother did not want to part from you,” Agelaus told him quietly. “She begged and cried, but your father — Gods, I still remember the expression on his face. He was heartbroken, but insistent. Troy was prospering — he was continuing his father’s work. He would not sacrifice the future of his people for —“ 

 

“His son,” Richard finished. “His son, who was already marked with disfavour from the Gods.” 

 

Agelaus observed Richard with such intensity he nearly flushed. 

 

“Your father was a good man, Dickon.” 

 

Richard looked into the fire, found strange satisfaction in the orange flames, flickering and curling into the night sky. 

 

“What if I never left here? What if I’d stayed on the farm? Made a life here, instead.” 

 

“Dickon, do you remember the reason why you left?” Agelaus inquired. 

 

Richard felt his heart still, felt a roar of emotions bellowing in his chest. 

 

_Anne,_ he thought. _Anne Anne Anne —_

 

“Yes,” he replied shakily. “Of course I do.” 

 

“Was it worth it?” 

 

Richard snapped his head to look at him so suddenly he heard it crack. 

 

“What?” 

 

“Was it worth it?” Agelaus repeated. 

 

Richard thought of Anne, thought of her in Sparta — in Troy. Thought of her now, alone in the world with him having run away. With him being a curse. The reason for all the people he loved being killed. Including her. 

 

“Not for her,” he whispered. “Nor for Troy. I thought — I thought that I had the Gods blessing, Agelaus. I thought that when they came to me it was for a reason. I thought Aphrodite would protect me. I was wrong.” 

 

The fire crackled, spit grey puffs of smoke into the air. 

 

“You’ll never know what happened if you’d never left, Dickon,” Agelaus said. “Everything happens for a reason. Everything goes as the Gods say it should. Never doubt that. For our lives are in their hands and we must trust them to set things right.” 

 

“You truly believe that?” Richard asked. 

 

“I have to. We all do.” 

 

xiii. 

 

Richard woke before Agelaus the next morning. 

 

The sky was a grey canvas filled with streaks of purple and soft yellow. He left the hut, inhaled sharply. Richard had forgotten how different the air was up in the mountains. How fresh and crisp it was against his lungs. He closed his eyes, listened to the sounds of the sheep beginning to stir, the birds chirping away in the trees. So familiar and yet so distant. Something was missing. Richard could not quite place it, could feel it on the tip of his tongue. 

 

He could not stay here. He knew that. But Richard would not simply leave Agelaus in the dead of night, without a word. He’d done that to him once. He had no intention of doing so again. 

 

Slowly, Richard made his way to some nearby bushes. He was pleased to find he remembered exactly where they were, and it was with fastidious care that he carefully plucked some of the berries for breakfast. It took him a few moments to realise he’d forgotten a basket, but he managed to find one by the sheep pen and collected enough berries to last Agelaus at least two more days. 

 

When he finished, the sun had begun to rise. 

 

_Just in time,_ he thought. _Agelaus always used to rise with the sun._

 

He was confident now would be no different. 

 

Richard made his way into the hut, left the basket on the ground. 

 

“I found some breakfast,” he said. 

 

Silence met him. 

 

“Agelaus?” he asked gently, his heart seized in his chest. 

 

He saw the small lump of his body under the sheet. His back was to him. 

 

“Agelaus?” he said again, sounding slightly frightened. 

 

He did not answer. 

 

Richard was about to give up and let him rest, when he realised with a paralysing jolt of horror what sound was missing: Agelaus’s snores. 

 

“No,” he whispered. “No no no.” 

 

He rushed over to Agelaus, kneeled on the ground beside him. His hands grasped his shoulders, turned him onto his back as he began to shake him. “Wake up!” he begged. 

 

Agelaus simply lay there with his eyes closed. His chest did not rise or fall. 

 

“Please wake up,” he begged. “Please don’t be dead. Please don’t —“ 

 

But to no avail. 

 

Agelaus was dead. 

 

Had died in his sleep. 

 

“No,” Richard gasped. He buried his face in his father’s chest. “No no no.” 

 

When he was only a child and he had night terrors, Agelaus used to let him sleep with him. He’d let Richard place his head on his chest and Richard would listen to his heartbeat, would take comfort in the dull thudding under his ears. 

 

“Now, now,” he used to say. “They are only dreams.” 

 

But now there was no heartbeat to comfort him or Agelaus’s voice to soothe him. 

 

There was only silence. 

 

Endless, deafening, heartbreaking silence. 

 

— 

 

How Richard managed to reach the edge of the forest remained a mystery to him. 

 

All he remembered was that there was land beneath his feet, and then there was not. 

 

Grief wrapped himself in its arm, consumed everything he was, everything he had. 

 

“Aphrodite?” he murmured. He swayed dangerously. “Why have you abandoned me?” 

 

And then he was falling. 

 

The last thing he thought when his body hit the water and his mind went blank was _Anne._

 

xiv. 

 

Richard was falling. 

 

Falling deeper and deeper into a pit of unwavering darkness. 

 

He was nothing except the fall. 

 

_Dickon,_ Aphrodite whispered. _I’ve not left you._

 

And yet, he continued to fall, deeper and deeper until — 

 

“Dickon!” someone yelled. Richard felt hands pushing on his chest, which made him cough up the water lodged in his throat. It hurt doing so, made his eyes and chest burn so greatly he thought they were on fire. 

 

“Damnation, Dickon,” Francis hissed. “I thought you were dead, you bloody fool.” 

 

“Francis?” he whispered. 

 

He dared not believe it; he was unable to believe it. 

 

Francis’s eyes softened, filled with unmistakeable belief. 

 

“Yes, you fucking idiot,” was Francis’s reply. 

 

“What are. . .” Richard’s voice trailed off, his throat dry and throbbing with pain. “How did you find me?” 

 

“I’ve been looking for you since you left,” Francis answered. “The King had to stop the search party; too many men were being slaughtered. I kept searching. I know the mountains just as well as you.” 

 

“Agelaus is dead,” Richard murmured. His eyes stung painfully as the memory clung to his brain. “He’s gone, Francis.” 

 

“I’m sorry. Agelaus was. . . Agelaus was a good man. Kinder than most.” 

 

“He was my father,” Richard said limply. 

 

His grey eyes wondered off, observed the river, which continued to flow down the stream. It was almost peaceful, sitting there. Almost. 

 

“You died,” Francis told him. “You had drowned, Dickon.” 

 

Richard remained silent. 

 

“What would possess you to do such a thing?” Francis demanded angrily. 

 

“You heard him, Francis,” Richard said. He kept his eyes on the water, admired its transparency. “You heard what the priest said, as did everyone else.” Emotion made his breath lodge in his throat. “I’m a curse. An ill omen. I will — and have brought — Troy nothing but death.” He lifted his eyes, met Francis’s gaze head on for the first time. “They knew. Ned and my mother knew and that’s why they acted like I’d lose. Because they already knew. It was probably why Ned let Anne stay in the first place. He knew I’d die anyway and she’d be returned to Lancaster. . .” 

 

“No,” Francis protested loudly. “That’s not true. Your brother loves you. He chose to let Anne stay — you remember his reasoning, do you not? Sending Anne back would not have healed the wound, Dickon. And how was Edward to know that Edouard and his mother would try to kill you? How would he know that Anne was the Queen of Sparta?” 

 

“Mayhap’s your right,” Richard muttered. “Doesn’t change the fact that as long as I live, Troy will fall.” 

 

“You don’t know that,” Francis accused. “You can’t possibly know that, Dickon. What happened to you being blessed by the Gods? By Aphrodite? What makes you think you can trust anything that priest says?” 

 

“Did you see the look on my mother’s face?” he snapped. “Did you? The guilt — the grief. . .” 

 

Richard shook his head, allowed his black curls to fall in his eyes. 

 

“I always wondered why she looked so guilty in the beginning,” he murmured. “I always thought she was blaming herself for something that wasn’t even her fault. How was she to know that wolves would steal me from the palace? But now I know the reason why; she felt guilty for sending a newborn babe to its death, all to satisfy the omens and who only survived because a shepherd succumbed to mercy.” 

 

He looked at Francis, saw this friend was at a loss for words. 

 

“You should have let me stay dead, Francis.” He rose unsteadily to his feet. “I’m either going to have to do the job myself now, or stumble upon some greek soldier.” He paused, disregarded the latter idea with a shake of his head. “No. Edouard would have my head served to my family on a silver platter or let it rot on a spike, like his mother did with my father and Edmund.” _And Anne —_

 

Richard did not think of Anne. Could not think of Anne. Francis noticed how he dodged her name. 

 

“And what of Anne? What of what your death will do to her? People were already arguing for her return by the time we returned to the palace.” 

 

Richard bit on his tongue so hard he drew blood. 

 

“Enough, Francis!” he flared. “Enough!” 

 

“No!” Francis said stubbornly. He rose to his feet as well, gripped Richard’s arm tightly. Richard was too tired to fight him. His body still ached from the fall, was weaker than it had ever been. “Damn it to the deepest part of the underworld, Dickon! I’ll not let you walk to your death — or bring death upon yourself for that matter —“

 

His voice vanished at the sight of — 

 

“Aphrodite,” Richard whispered. 

 

He had not known when she appeared, only knew that the world around them had suddenly been muted. That all was now eerily quiet, in a way he had only heard once before. 

 

“Dickon,” she said. 

 

Her hair stirred with the sudden breeze, glossed down her toned shoulders. 

 

Her beauty still managed to take his breath away. 

 

“I never abandoned you,” she told him. She came closer to him, so close he could almost feel her breath. “I’ve been right here, Richard. Blessing you, guiding you. Always.” 

 

It took him a while to find the strength to speak. 

 

“Why didn’t you tell me about the curse?” 

 

Aphrodite smiled gently, though her eyes were regretful, sad even. 

 

“It wasn’t my story to tell,” she said softly. “But Dickon, the curse has been broken. When you died in that river, the omen was fulfilled. Your heart stopped when you hit the river. The three sons of Troy have another chance. You shall not die in this battle between Troy and Lancaster.” 

 

“What?” he breathed. 

 

She placed a hand on his curls. Her eyes widened as she admired them, felt them under her hands. 

 

“You have a true, princely head, Richard,” she murmured. “You will be forever blessed if you maintain it. I swear to you, the curse has broken. Troy has been given another chance.” She stepped away from him, glanced towards Francis. “Go home.” 

 

And then she vanished, disappeared into nothingness as Francis and Richard stared at each other. 

 

“Did that just happen?” Francis asked, uncomprehending. 

 

“Yes,” Richard whispered. His eyes pierced with tears of relief. “Gods, Francis, it did happen. I can go home.” 

 

xv. 

 

The sight of the city walls filled him with such conflicting emotions he nearly collapsed. 

 

He watched under the shadows of the nearby forest as Francis approached the side gate, empty handed and open armed. 

 

He couldn’t quite hear what Francis was saying to the guards on the battlements, had unwavering faith that it was what they discussed. He and Francis had come to the quick realisation that not many would be happy to have Richard return to Troy after the priest’s revelation. There was a possibility they’d refuse to let him in, or simply ignore them. 

 

Richard observed as Francis waved his hands around, and he relaxed slightly when he heard the grand wooden doors begin to open. As they predicted, there were only two guards responsible for the opening and closing of the door, and it was with a sudden quickness that Francis managed to render them both unconscious with a smart hit at the back of their heads. 

 

Richard, without having to be told, ran towards the side gate, helped Francis carry the unconscious guards into the city walls and shut the side gate behind them. 

 

“Go to her,” Francis said, once they’d placed the guards resting against a wall in an alleyway. “I’ll tell the royal family you’re back.” 

 

Richard moved towards the palace, before he stopped, turned around. 

 

“Thank you, Francis,” he told his friend. “I wouldn’t be here, if not for you.” 

 

Francis laughed and shot him a grin. 

 

“And I’ll never let you forget it!”

 

— 

 

His chambers were empty when he managed to sneak himself inside. 

 

The room was a mess. Garments were thrown on the floor. There was a thick smell of candles and incense. He glanced towards the table, saw that candles were lit at every statue of the Gods and Goddesses he had. The bed was unmade and his heart tightened painfully when he saw one of his tunics laid out beside Anne’s pillow, as if she had been sleeping with it. 

 

Richard made a half hearted effort to pick up some of the garments, placed them on one of the tables as he tried to stop the shaking in his palms. _Anne,_ he thought, trying to steady his heart. _Anne, I’m —_

 

“Veronique, I thought I said I didn’t want the chambers touched —“ 

 

Anne’s voice trailed off in shock as she realised who was in her — _their_ rooms. 

 

“Anne,” Richard murmured. He dared not try and approach her, he noticed the sudden paleness of her face, the way her back had tightened like a bow string. 

 

“Why?” she asked. “Why did you leave me?” 

 

“I was a curse on Troy, on my family — on _you._ I had to leave, had to die, like the prophecy said.” 

 

“I don’t care,” Anne whispered brokenly. “I don’t care about some _stupid_ prophecy.” 

 

Tears sprung in her eyes as she stumbled back. 

 

“You _left_ me,” she said. A sob escaped her mouth, made her shoulders shake. “You swore we would face everything together and then you _left._ We could have faced it — faced all of them.” 

 

Richard moved towards her, his heart aching with the need to comfort, to make things right. He burned with it. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he told her, desperation evident in his voice. Her back hit a column, back Anne took no notice of the impact. 

 

“I thought you were dead,” she said, hitting her hands against his chest. “Damn you, Richard. I thought you were _dead._ I thought I’d never see you again.” Tears trickled down her face, made her brown eyes swollen and red. 

 

“Aphrodite visited me,” he captured her hands, stopped her onslaught of hits. “She told me the curse had been broken — that the three sons of Troy had another chance.” Her eyes softened, her body grew limp as her anger seeped out of her body, replaced by heart wrenching relief. “She told me I could come home, to you.” 

 

She gazed at him hungrily, as if she were trying to reassure herself he was real. 

 

“I love you,” he whispered. “I’ll never leave you like that again. I’m so sorry.” 

 

Anne smiled shakily, managed to shake his hands off hers and bring her own to rest on his face. 

 

“I love you,” she said. “Gods help me, but I do.” 

 

He kissed her gently, relieved to find her lips still felt the same, that time and hurt had not changed how perfect they were for his own. She didn’t respond at first, and Richard felt his heart sink until he finally felt her lips move against his own. 

 

His kisses grew harder, spread from her mouth to her chin to her brow to her hair to her collarbone. They were promises of devotion, of regret, of his vow to never leave her again. It did not take long for their clothes to reach the floor, for desire to seep into their bones. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against her skin as she wrapped her legs around his waist. “I love you.” 

 

After they had found their pleasure, they slid down to the floor, manoeuvred themselves so that Richard’s back was against the wall and Anne was between his legs, leaning against his chest. They panted softly, sweat clung to them like second skin. Richard, with one arm around Anne’s waist and his other hand running through her hair, felt content. 

 

“We need to face them,” Anne said, breaking the silence. 

 

Richard’s hand froze in her hair. 

 

“I know,” he replied. He bent his head down, pressed a kiss against her bare shoulder. “But not just yet.” 

 

xvi. 

 

They walked hand in hand to the throne room. 

 

Anne squeezed his hand comfortingly when they entered, shot him a quick, reassuring smile. 

 

“Richard!” Ned exclaimed. 

 

He blinked rapidly, was suddenly bombarded by Ned’s arms wrapping around him in a warm, fierce embrace. 

 

“We thought you were dead,” he said loudly. Ned pulled away before Richard had the chance to reciprocate. “Zeus, lad. We all thought you were dead, gone before —“ Ned faltered, his blue eyes wondering over his brother’s face, as if to process that he really was alive and well. “Before we could make things right.” 

 

Richard raised his hand, offered his brother a tentative smile. 

 

“We’ll have all the time in the world to do so after we win this war,” he declared confidently. 

 

Ned smiled at him, and, much to Richard’s surprise, George joined them too, so they were now standing in a circle.

 

“Aphrodite visited you as well?” 

 

George was not asking a question. 

 

“Yes,” Richard replied steadily. “She said the curse was broken. That the three sons of Troy had another chance.” 

 

“She said the same to us,” Ned told him. “That’s how we knew you might be alive. That Francis would succeed in bringing you home.” 

 

“I am home,” Richard said. He shot Anne a warm look. “And I have no intention of leaving like that ever again.” 

 

“Good, dear brother,” Ned grinned. “For I have a plan to rid ourselves of Anjou and her little rut once and for all.” 

 

— 

 

The plan was beyond dangerous. 

 

Verged on sheer stupidity, truth be told. 

 

But it was brilliant; outrageously, dangerously brilliant. 

 

At first, it only involved ten men at most. They’d sneak into the Greek camp in the dead of the night, would set fire to their supplies. Large balls of hay would be rolled into the camps, down to the ships and the tents. They’d use flaming arrows to set them on fire. It would wreak havoc in the camp, would cause all the Greeks to flounder, their lines to fall short. 

 

“We’ll afford them the same curtesy they offered Richard and our father and brother,” is all Ned said, after he had voiced his plan.

 

After they set the Greek camp on fire, they’d wait in the nearby fields for the Greeks to come out. Ned did not want to risk sending the whole Trojan army onto the beach, incase the Greeks were better prepared then they thought. Or incase the ten men were caught.

 

It was a gamble; an outrageous, incredulous gamble. 

 

Richard thought it would work. 

 

“It’s settled then,” Ned murmured. “We leave tonight.” 

 

— 

 

When Richard did leave, he did promise Anne he would return or that they would win. He was confident that they would win, was sure that the Gods were with them. But he had been sure before, and he had lost and ran away. 

 

All he did was kiss her, sure that was a promise of a future in and of itself. 

 

And then they were off to battle, what they hoped would be the final battle of this Gods forsaken war. 

 

xvii. 

 

It almost seemed like the Lancasters weren’t there in the dead of the night. 

 

As the night breeze cooled their skin, the camp was quiet. Richard knew it stretched from one side of the shore to the other, could see the shadows of the tents from the few torches they had lit. And yet still, as they stood there, towering over the camp from the sands, it struck him how they held life and death in their hands, almost as if they were Gods casting judgement. 

 

His heart pounded in his chest; he knew he had to move fast, knew that Ned was counting on him. 

 

“Are you ready?” Francis whispered. 

 

The other dozen men who joined them were carefully holding onto the balls of hay and straw. They were tall, at least twice of Richard’s height and width, and heavy. It was with barely concealed restrained that they managed to hold them back. He knew they were awaiting his signal. 

 

“As ready as I’l ever be,” he responded. 

 

He carefully placed an arrow in the small fire by his feet, let it catch alight and lifted it over his head. 

 

And then — then the world went on fire. 

 

— 

 

There were many who said that demons and monsters favoured Troy. 

 

He’d heard people say it of Ned’s luck in the first wars against Lancaster, and he heard it for years after they won again. 

 

For they did win. 

 

With the world in flames around them and men screaming and crying for their wives and mothers, they _won._

 

Ned was right in suspecting that the flames would cast the Lancaster’s  all over the place, but he was wrong in how quickly it took Jasper Tudor to assemble his men. And Gods, even Richard was surprised by how swiftly he managed to form his men into a decent formation and lead them into battle against the Trojans. 

 

Soon, Margaret of Anjou and Edouard of Lancaster managed to do the same, though they were leagues behind Tudor. Even with much of their army on fire or dead, their remaining force was still a worthy, fearful opponent. 

 

But still, they won. 

 

The battle went like this: 

 

Blood. 

 

Death. 

 

God, so much blood. 

 

So much brains and guts splattered along the shore, the neighbouring fields. 

 

His body ached with the weight of his armour. 

 

It hurt to lift his sword, hurt to breathe. 

 

Men, both Trojans and Greeks littered the ground. There were so many of them it grew hard to move and fight. 

 

A Greek cut his leg deeply, made him cry out in pain before Richard silenced him forever with a clever stab of his sword into his chest. 

 

And Richard was fighting — fighting with every beat of his heart for Troy and for Anne and for the people he loved, but even he grew tired. But Ned. . . Ned was like a man possessed with vengeance, and Richard remembered yet again that in many ways this war was more personal for Ned than it was for him. 

 

Richard watched Ned from his horse, saw his brother kill with unquestionable skill and strength. He was almost like a demigod, how strong he looked. Like Hercules, or some other hero they sang of in songs. As he observed his brother, he realised that while he may have started the war, it was indeed _Ned’s_ war. It was his crown, his city that he was sworn to protect with his life. He was King and he was not a man fighting for glory, he was like Richard. Fighting for love, for his country and unlike Richard in that he was fighting for his children too. For his son who was born when Richard was away. 

 

It was Ned’s blatant determination and public showing of unhealed grief that encouraged Richard to ignore the pain in his leg and made him push forward. It was still dark as they fought and fought as men cried out and died and bled and grieved. There were calls for Troy and for Lancaster but Richard didn’t notice — was only aware of the sword in his hand and the pulsing of his heart. 

 

He was tired and determined and his body ached and his armour weighed down on him and he could taste victory on his tongue as the army pushed and pushed until their opponents gradually began to lessen, slowly, slowly, body by body, death by death. 

 

When the victory came, the sun had just begun to rise. 

 

As the sun broke over the morning twilight, cascading the remaining soldiers in a soft glow, it looked as though there were three suns in the sky, each for a son of Troy. 

 

xviii. 

 

Jasper Tudor was dead. 

 

Edouard of Lancaster was dead. 

 

Margaret of Anjou was alive. 

 

When they brought her into the city, let the people throw her curses and food and then brought her to the throne room, it struck Richard how the human heart could still cling to hope even when it bordered on insanity. 

 

“Your son is dead,” Ned said. 

 

He still looked majestic on his throne, even as blood still stained his hair and his armour was still dirty from battle. 

 

Margaret fell limp in her guards arms. 

 

“Do you understand what that means?” 

 

Richard felt Anne shift beside him, placed an arm around her waist to bring her close. 

 

“It means your line is dead,” Ned finished. “House Lancaster has been destroyed. Your son and heir is dead, and your army defeated.” 

 

The look in Margaret’s eyes was that of complete and utter blankness. It was as if the world had died out. 

 

“Take her away,” Ned commanded. The guards seized Margaret, had to pull her up to get her to rise, but her legs still dangled on the floor. 

 

“A curse on your house,” she said. Her voice echoed throughout the throne room, silenced any talk or laughter or triumph. “A curse on all your sons, on all your loved ones. Let your joy turn to ashes in your mouth, and know the misery that I do now. The Gods never forget, and my words will come back to haunt you all!” 

 

Ned rose, approached her quietly. 

 

“You’re right, my lady,” he said. “The Gods never forget, and that is why they have brought justice upon you, for all the murders you’ve done.” 

 

And then she was taken away, leaving them all with a sense of foreboding in their hearts. 

 

— 

 

But the war was not over just yet. 

 

Ned came to his and Anne’s chambers the following day, after the doctors had finished stitching up the wound in his leg. 

 

“We have to make sure that all the Greeks have left or died,” Ned said, after they exchanged formalities. 

 

“Can’t we send a party of soldiers?” 

 

The instant the words left his mouth he knew it was a futile idea. 

 

“We’ve endured half a year of war, almost as many battles in as much time, Richard. Now that we have won the final battle, the soldiers won’t wish to risk their lives in case some revengeful Lancaster soldiers are still prowling around the beaches.” 

 

Richard understood their reasoning. 

 

“Then we should give the soldiers time,” he said. “Give people enough time to heal their wounds. Then we can send out a party to ensure the remaining Greeks have left.” 

 

“I’ll go,” Anne said quietly. 

 

Richard stared at her, gobsmacked. 

 

“What?” he asked flatly. 

 

“I’ll go to the beach, make sure the soldiers have left.” 

 

“No!”

 

The look Anne shot him made rendered him incapable of speech for a moment. 

 

It occurred to Richard that he was not entirely forgiven for leaving, that not even the end of the war had healed that wound. Guilt swarmed his stomach, made his face flush, but Gods, he would not — could not agree to this madness. 

 

“You could die, Anne,” he said hoarsely. “Lancaster is dead, Margaret is a prisoner, most of their commanders have been executed. To risk your life now, after everything —“ 

 

Anne shook her head stubbornly, raised her eyes in defiance. 

 

“I won’t let anymore people die because of me,” she said. “Besides, I’m simply making sure that the Greeks have gone. We are already almost positive that any remaining soldiers have gone.” 

 

Richard glanced at Ned, saw at once he would find no sympathy with him and fell to his knees in front of her, sheer desperation driving all sense of pride or pain from his mind. 

 

“Anne,” he begged. “Please, don’t do this.” 

 

Her brown orbs softened as she stared down at him. 

 

“You could die,” he whispered. “And I can’t bear that. I can not.” 

 

Richard’s attention was solely on her; everything that he was, that he owned, that he possessed was begging her, pleading with her not to do this. 

 

One of her hands rested on his shoulder, went up to his neck. 

 

“Get up, my love,” Anne urged gently. “You’ll ruin your stitches.” 

 

Richard rose slowly, winced at the sudden pain on his leg. 

 

“What possesses you to do certain things, I shall never know,” she reprimanded him, shooting his injured leg a meaningful look. Ned dissolved into laughter, damn him, but Richard had to be sure that Anne would not do this, that she would see reason — 

 

“Anne?” he questioned, awaiting her response. 

 

She smiled at him, leaned forward to kiss him gently, uncaring that Ned was standing right beside them. Richard relaxed against her mouth, thankful to all Gods that he was still alive to do this, to feel her against him. 

 

“I’ll get the physician,” she told him. 

 

He never realised that she failed to answer his question. 

 

— 

 

When he woke the next morning, Richard was instantly aware of the lack of warmth beside him. 

 

“Anne?” he questioned, sitting up quickly. He looked around the room, eager to see any sign of her presence. The room was quiet. Her side of the bed was slept in, but cold. 

 

Anne was gone. 

 

“Shit,” he swore, and leaped out of bed, shrugging a chiton over his head as he ran out of the room. 

 

He cared not for the startled looks he received, simply ran like his life depended on it. Despite his speed, the time it took to reach Ned’s chambers felt like a century. 

 

“Where is she?” he demanded, bursting into the room without a care for protocol. 

 

The door slammed shut behind him. Ned stood by the balcony, looked unsurprised by his brother’s desperation. 

 

“Where do you think?” he replied. 

 

Richard grew cold with horror, his eyes widening as — 

 

“Shit,” he swore again, distantly aware of the growing pain in his leg. 

 

“Richard, you must let her do this —“ 

 

“If she dies, I die with her, do you understand?” he snapped, and fled the room as quickly as he entered it. 

 

He wasted no time in getting to the stables, shouting for all to hear for someone to prepare him a horse quickly. 

 

“Dickon!” Francis exclaimed, appearing at his side out of thin air. “Damnation, what in Hades are you doing?” 

 

Richard brushed past him, impatient for his horse to be readied and saddled. 

 

“You’ll ruin your stitches, you fool!” Francis yelled, once he caught sight of Richard’s horse being led to him. 

 

“Do you really think I care?” he retorted, once he was secure on his horse. 

 

And then he was flying, riding his horse as fast as he dared, past the gates, down the path of endless sand and trees all the way down to the beach. He knew not how long she had been gone for, knew only that she had left, gone to that accursed beach. The wind howled against him, caused him to shield his eyes from the sand. 

 

It took Richard little time to reach the beach and his heart rose in his chest at the sight of a figure in the distance. He dared not yell, aware that some soldiers could still be lingering nearby, waiting to pounce, to have what little vengeance they could manage. 

 

Anne did not turn at the sound of his horse, did not acknowledge him when he jumped off the horse and onto the sand. 

 

“Anne,” he called out briskly. “What in Hades are you doing?” 

 

Even with the sound of the waves hitting the shore, he could hear her sigh. She turned finally, looked at him with sad, desperate eyes. Her purple dress clung to her, the hem filthy with sand. He could see the redness of her feet, realised with increased anger that she must have walked all this way. 

 

“You were going to walk to your potential death without even saying a word?” he questioned bitterly. 

 

Anne let out a small laugh that quickly dissolved into a sob. 

 

“You never would have let me go,” she said, her dark eyes misty with tears. 

 

“You could die,” he retorted angrily. He waved his hands in the air. “We both still could. And for what? For a dead man? For a war that we already won?” His words were harsh, he knew. He could see her flinch, was distantly aware that he was venturing on words too painful to truly forgive or forget. 

 

“You don’t know what it’s like. You could hear all of their cries — the wounded, the widows, the children, the ones left behind. You could drown it out — could make up for it with battles and death and killing. I — I have nothing to offer, Dickon. Nothing except my life and —“ 

 

“Do you not think I’m guilty too?” he asked incredulously. “ _I_ was the one who asked you to come with me, even before I knew of Lancaster’s plot to kill me. Not you, Anne. And Lancaster was the one who sought war with his mother, who seaked Troy’s destruction before you had come on that ship —“ 

 

“That doesn’t change anything,” she interrupted. “Doesn’t change the fact that people died. That wives lost their husbands, that mothers lost their sons, that children lost their fathers. It does not change the fact that there is all this suffering and I’m here, I’m alive and I’m in love and I have to make it up somehow, Dickon. I offered my fate to the Gods, asked them to show I was forgiven if I survived.” 

 

“Anne,” he said. “The Gods have forgiven us, have offered us another chance.” His anger lessened, dissolved into an urge to comfort. “The dead are dead, Anne. They are now at peace, all of them. All we can do is look to the future, live in honour of those who died.” 

 

“Even if it means experiencing things they did not?” she questioned, letting her tears fall without shame. “If we know joy they never experienced? Some were boys who never knew love, who never wed.” Her eyes lowered, filled with misery as she placed a hand on her stomach. “Never got to hold their child in their arms.” 

 

Richard stilled, sheer shock rendered him numb, uncomprehending. 

 

“You — “ he floundered, unaware of what to say, how to speak. “You’re with child?” 

 

So this was the sudden trigger of guilt — this blessing that made Anne feel all the more guilty. He thought of her, all alone while she wondered whether or not he lived or died. When he returned, and they won the final battle, it was one blessing too many. 

 

“Yes,” she answered. 

 

Anne stared at him warily, awaited his anger. 

 

Richard swallowed loudly, surprised them both by reaching for her hands. He linked their fingers together, his love for her swallowed him whole, warmed every inch of his body. 

 

“If we are to die here,” he said. “If there are soldiers awaiting in the shadows with vengeance, we’ll face it together.” 

 

“Richard —“ 

 

“Is that not what we swore to each other once?” he asked gently. 

 

Anne’s eyes softened as she bit down on her lip. 

 

“Together,” she affirmed softly. 

 

— 

 

As it turned out, Aphrodite spoke true; neither Richard or Anne died at the hands of a Lancastrian. They returned to Troy unharmed. Soon enough, after the dead had been burned and the wounded healed, Anne and Richard’s engagement was declared. 

 

Not that it meant much to them, since they had already been living as man and wife and loved each other regardless, but they knew the need for celebration, the need to forget war. And so, Ned gladly announced their upcoming marriage to all. 

 

It seemed like the whole of Troy helped prepare the city. Flowers and vines were wrapped around whatever people could manage, wines were brought, the kitchens worked on the food for nigh on a week. 

 

It was unlike anything Richard had ever seen before. 

 

One night, he found himself dining with Francis, Rob Percy and Robert Brackenbury. 

 

“Gods,” Francis said, leaning back in his chair as he sipped on his wine. “I never thought we’d have this again.” 

 

Richard smiled, nodded his head as the other two murmured similar sentiments. He met Rob’s gaze, laughed at the sudden grin that graced his friend’s lips. 

 

“I know not whether to congratulate you on your pending marriage, my friend,” Rob jested. “For usually men are doom and gloom when faced with marriage vows.” 

 

They all laughed at the joke. Richard shook his head at his friend’s words. 

 

“In truth, it makes little difference,” he admitted. 

 

“You can say that again!” Francis added. “The only reason you might need marriage was if Anne were with child.” 

 

Richard paused, gazed at his friend with an expectant expression. 

 

Francis halted at the look, his eyes widened with amazement. 

 

“Zeus’s truth! Anne is with child?” 

 

At Richard’s nod, Francis smiled brightly. 

 

“Congratulations, Dickon!” he exclaimed. He raised his cup. “I propose a toast,” he said, his words slightly slurred. “To Dickon’s babe!” 

 

Rob laughed and raised his cup as well. 

 

“I’ll get you one better, Francis,” he said. “To Anne of Sparta.” 

 

Richard laughed at Rob’s jest, raised his wine cup. 

 

“Thank you both,” he said. “But I’d rather you make it to Anne of Troy.” 

- 

_End of Part 2._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Admittedly, I'm not very good at writing battle scenes, so please excuse the lack of focus on them. Thanks! :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I'm back. Wow, it's been so long since I've written anything holy shit. I missed writing. I've been through a lot this past year - school, heartbreak, traveling, work, and I've only recently summoned up the energy to come back to writing. I was too tired before. 
> 
> In the name of honesty, as much as I love this story and this idea, my passion to do it justice died last summer. I put my heart and soul into most of this chapter - in fact, I wrote most of it near the end of last summer, but I never got around to finishing it. I'd like to start new projects, write new things, but this story, this nagging guilt of leaving something incomplete would not leave me alone. So, as best I could, I filled in the blanks between the pieces I'd written. As you read, you'll be able to tell which parts I wrote last summer and which parts I wrote now. It's kinda rushed and I'm sorry for that, but this is the best I could do. 
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy this final chapter. This is perhaps the most ambitious and in-depth thing I'v ever written, and I'm sad that my ability to write another 20,000 words in this universe has died. I am, however, relieved to bring a conclusion to this story. 
> 
> Thanks so much for your support. Please tell me your thoughts. 
> 
> Until next time,   
> Fionakevin073. 
> 
> (And, as always, scenes from this were inspired by Troy: Fall of a City, and The Illiad)

 

 

 

i. 

 

He married Anne on a hot sunny day, surrounded by his family and friends. The words and promises mean little; Richard had already vowed to protect her, to love her until the end of his days. Saying those vows in front of hundreds of people did not make them any more valid. And yet, when he pulled Anne’s veil back and kissed her sweetly, he could taste his happiness on his tongue, could feel her smile widely against his lips. 

 

And so they were wed. 

 

And when they stood on the altar with their hands clasped and overlooked the cheering crowds and smiling faces, and as the sun shone down on them and basked them in golden light, it truly felt like the Gods had blessed them after all, and all thoughts of doom and ruin and Margaret of Anjou’s curse faded to the back of their minds and turned into a glorious, endless hope. 

 

— 

 

It did not take long for Anne’s stomach began to round and her state became obvious to all the court — as she was already around two moons pregnant by the time the war ended, it took little time at all —they took that time to heal their wounds. 

 

After the war had ended and the chaos subsided, the tension between Richard and his family began to show. 

In truth, most of his hurt and feelings of betrayal had already subsided. Winning a war certainly helped subside those emotions. 

 

But there was definitely a distance that had not been there before, especially between him, Ned and his mother. Surprisingly, it was with George who he felt most at ease with now, after the dust had settled. That George had not known about the curse, he did not doubt. 

 

Whenever he did spend time with George, it was spent mostly in silence. They watched Anne and Isabel laugh and talk — for despite their admittedly frosty relationship their wives had become steadfast friends, who had one central thing in common: Queen Elizabeth did not like either of them one bit. But those hours of silence and stilted conversation helped ease the animosity between the two of them, and while Richard could not honestly say he and George were friends, he did not feel so distant from his brother. 

 

So at least one thing came good out of the curse. 

 

— 

 

Anne had reached her sixth month of pregnancy when the splatters of blood appeared on their bedsheets. 

 

Richard had wasted no time in running for the court physicians, and it was with his arms wrapped firmly around her shoulders that the physician sternly told her to remain on bedrest for the remainder of her pregnancy. They were both sick with fright as they nodded, and when the physician left Richard curled up against her, slung an arm around her waist so his hand rested on her stomach. 

 

There were times when he could scarcely believe their luck. 

 

That Hera had allowed them to be blessed in such a way. 

 

It was a glaring reminder of Aphrodite’s words: _The Gods have given you another chance._

 

He tried to ignore the part of himself that whispered about how Anne had already gotten pregnant _before_ he died in that river, but Richard did not wish to question this blessing for fear of the consequences. His hand pressed lightly into the growing roundness of her stomach. 

 

_This is real,_ he thought. His heart swelled in his chest, rose to his throat. 

 

“I can barely believe it too,” Anne whispered. She placed one of her hands on top of his on her stomach. “So many years Edouard and I were married with no child.” She was silent for a moment, lost to memories he did not share. “If I had a child, and then I met you. . .” 

 

Anne shuddered violently. 

 

“I don’t even want to think of it.” 

 

Neither did Richard, truth be told. 

 

Lancaster was still a ghost that haunted Anne regularly, and though the wounds he caused had healed, they had only just begun to scar. 

 

Richard leaned forward slightly, pressed a gentle kiss to the back of her head. 

 

“We’re going to be so happy,” he whispered. “All three of us. The happiest family in all of Troy.” 

 

Anne laughed loudly and shifted in his arms, turned onto her other side so she was now facing him. 

 

“But not the largest,” she teased, her dark eyes twinkled. “That honour goes to your brother.” 

 

Richard laughed too. Ned and his wife had been married for six years with four children already, and rumour had it that the Queen was pregnant yet again, a mere six months after the birth of her last child. Her first boy with Ned, also named Edward as well. 

 

Richard was going to reply, had already opened his mouth to do so when — 

 

“What is that?” he whispered, his voice full of awe as he glanced down at Anne’s stomach. Despite the fact that she changed her position, their hands had remained on her stomach. There had been a queer shift in her stomach, almost like the baby was moving. 

 

Anne giggled at the stunned expression on his face. 

 

“That’s the baby,” she told him, smiling widely. “He’s moving.” 

 

“He?” Richard asked. “How do you know?” 

 

Anne shrugged slightly and used her other hand to caress his cheek. 

 

“I just do.” 

 

Richard chuckled at her, pressed a kiss to her forehead. 

 

“I love you,” he told her quietly. 

 

— 

 

The room was quiet. 

 

The candles were the only light in the room, the smell of incense was as strong as in any temple of Troy. The furniture was surprisingly quaint and Richard knew his mother had rid herself of some of her furniture and more glamorous belongings over the years. She had grown more pious after the war with Lancaster ended and Richard knew the time would soon come when she eventually took the vows of a Priestess, and would leave the court life far behind her. 

 

“Your father loved you,” his mother said quietly. 

 

Richard didn’t quite know how he got there. 

 

Six months had passed since he found out the truth, and somehow he’d managed to avoid this conversation. There had been Anne and the chaos after the war and diplomats and rations and — 

 

His mother’s eyes bore into the side of his skull, gently pleaded with him to look at her. 

 

“It broke his heart to part with you. He had not wanted to, but thought he had to. For the good of his people.” 

 

Hurt blossomed near his heart. 

 

“I was a child,” he said, very very softly, careful to keep his voice even. “I was only a babe. A newborn.” 

 

“I know,” Cecily whispered. 

 

_Then why did you do it?_

 

Richard startled at the sudden feel of his mother’s hands clasped over his own. Her hands were wrinkled, but the skin was still soft, oddly soothing — _a mother’s touch._

 

“We looked for you in every raven haired boy we saw,” she told him. Her blue eyes glistened with unshed tears; it disturbed him to see his mother so distraught. Cecily was always so collected — a proud woman. 

 

“You were our last boy — our last child.” Her gaze grew haunted — remnants of grief crept up on her. “We never forgave ourselves for it. Never. And then when your father and Edmund died, I thought this was the punishment. For our sins. For what we did to you — by Gods we did not even give you a chance.” 

 

“Mother,” he murmured. His heart ached in his chest, twisted and groaned and — 

 

“It’s alright,” he continued. 

 

“No it’s not,” she said sadly. “When you returned, I knew it was you. I knew it. And I thought the Gods had forgiven us, had accepted your father’s and Edmund’s death as sufficient compensation. I thought they had forgotten, Richard. I truly thought they had.” 

 

“And Ned? How did Ned find out?” 

 

For he’d never asked Ned — never. It was his mother he wanted an explanation from. Not Ned. Not yet, anyway. 

 

“He found out after we heard about Anne.” 

 

His mother’s answer was short but honest. 

 

Richard exhaled loudly, ran a hand through his curls. 

 

“Oh,” he said. 

 

_So I was right — he let Anne stay because he thought — knew — I would die — you both knew the truth and didn’t tell me why why why —_

 

And Richard may have had a thousand reasons to be angry but as he stared into his mother’s eyes, the anger and hurt in his heart slowly disappeared. For they were all alive and well — Anne had his child in her belly and Ned was alive as were his children and so was George. Isabel was with child as well, was about two months along. Greece had left Troy alone after the collapse of the Lancasters. 

 

They were _happy_ and _safe._

 

And so Richard forgave her — forgave her and his father for sentencing him to die, forgave Ned for lying to him. 

 

It didn’t matter anymore. 

 

It didn’t. 

 

— 

 

“He’s so small.”

 

The words escaped Richard’s mouth before he even finished thinking them. Much to his surprise, Anne laughed loudly as his cheeks grew rosy. The sound was like music to his ears. She winced and stopped abruptly due to her tiredness and soreness. 

 

Richard laughed too, kissed her left cheek loudly as he stared down at the bundle in her arms. At their _son._

 

Anne had gone into labour earlier than expected. Only two months had passed since her mandatory bedrest and the babe had not been expected for another moon or so. Anne had laboured for a full night to bring him into the world and Richard had not slept or ate. Had simply stayed outside their rooms with his head in his hands as he listened to her screams. 

 

Francis had stayed with him through it all — Rob Percy, Will Ratcliffe and Robert Brackenbury too. Ned had visited him when Anne had first begun her labour; he’d stayed for only a short while. He drank wine with Richard, tried to distract him to no avail. 

 

“He is a newborn,” Anne jested, without any bite to it. 

 

A wide smile danced on her lips as she stared down at their son. At the little person they’d made together. Richard observed her intently; took note of the sweat that greased her long, chestnut locks. The redness of her cheeks, the bags under her eyes. But none of it mattered. She looked so happy. And his heart throbbed in his chest, throbbed so painfully tears sprang in his eyes. 

 

He glanced down at his son — by the Gods, he was a father — and his heart warmed all the more. Small tuffs of black hair graced his small head. His cheeks were flushed, his limps small and plump. 

 

“He looks like you,” Anne murmured. “He has your hair and your nose — your lips, I think too.” 

 

“A pity,” Richard said, flashing her a grin. “I’d much rather he look like you — the most beautiful woman in the world.” 

 

Anne shot him an exasperated look. 

 

“Funny,” she chided softly, careful not to wake their son. 

 

They grew quiet quickly, returned to staring at him, watching his small chest rise and fall, as though if they looked away he would suddenly stop. 

 

“What shall we name him?” she asked lowly. 

 

Richard pondered her words for a moment, numerous suggestions flew through his head. 

 

“Don’t you wish to name him? You are the one who brought him into the world.” 

 

Anne paused, seemed to consider his words carefully. 

 

“I’m too glad he’s here to truly think of anything,” she told him. “It sounds silly, but it’s true.” 

 

“I think we shall call him Edward,” he said. “Edward, after my brother.” 

 

Anne tried the name on her tongue. 

 

“Edward,” she repeated. 

 

They looked down at their newborn son. 

 

“What do you think?” she whispered to his sleeping form. “Is Edward alright with you?” 

 

Their son’s eyes opened slowly and blinked. 

 

Anne and Richard laughed. 

 

“Edward,” she murmured, her voice so full of love it made him ache. “Our son.” 

 

— 

 

Edward — _their_ Edward — reached six months. 

 

Then a year. 

 

He learned to walk on the beach of Troy, with the sea rolling against the shore just out of his reach. 

 

Edward had decided to host a massive celebration on the beaches of Troy to feast on the birth of his second son. All of the nobility had gone, and the royal family — Edward with his six children, George with his young daughter Maggie and a pregnant Isabel, Richard with Anne and their son. 

 

And Francis was there — and Veronique. 

 

They’d managed to go a little farther from the celebrations — close enough that they were still in eye sight of course, and not far enough to cause insult. But Anne, Richard, Francis and Veronique had walked a little further away with Ned — of course Ned was carried there of course, with all of them alternating every few moments. 

 

They’d placed Ned on the sand, had talked quietly amongst themselves when Ned had suddenly wobbled over, rose on his legs as he clapped his hands with excitement at the sea. 

 

Richard was the one who caught him when Ned stumbled and almost fell in the sand, and he lifted his son over his head, slowly spun him around. 

 

“My boy,” he murmured. 

 

— 

 

Richard could hear the lutes from outside his brother’s solar — can hear the echoes of laughter and groans. The thick smell of wine, smoke and perfume emanated from behind the door, and it was with great reluctance that Richard opened the door and slid inside his brother’s chambers. 

 

Ned had always indulged himself in wine, women, and drink, but after Troy had defeated Greece once and for all two years prior, his appetite had grown increasingly. Ned was still quick to laugh; his body was still lean and muscular and Richard still loved him, was loyal to his brother without question. 

 

But he did not share his indulgences, and could barely stand to appear in his brother’s chambers after he retreated from his equally lavish courts and hosted people in his private rooms. Ned had never been faithful to his wife, Richard knew that, and there was a small wedge between them for it, because Richard loved Anne and would never dream of dishonouring her in such a manner. 

 

Ned laughed at him for it. 

 

“You’re a better man than I, Richard,” he had told him once, his words slurred. 

 

Richard stiffened as one of the courtesans stared at him openly — he wondered yet again why Ned had summoned him at such an hour. He didn’t see his brother as he glanced around the room, and he offered polite nods to Anthony Woodville — the Queen’s favourite brother — and Will Hastings, acknowledging them without forcing conversation. 

 

He and Hastings had never fully recovered the relationship they had before the war, the latter’s blatant disapproval of Anne was muted now, but Richard had never forgotten it. 

 

Richard brightened as he caught sight of Ned, before his expression darkened as he caught sight of Thomas Stanley standing next to him, conversing with his brother quietly. He disliked the Stanley brothers, knew not why Ned kept them close and allowed them to keep their power. They had been most unreliable during the war with Warwick; had only pledged their loyalty after it was clear Ned would win. William Stanley had even sided with Margaret of Anjou during the first war. Ned had told him that they had one brother on either side to guarantee success. 

 

Richard tried to smother his distaste for the elder man as he offered him a courteous smile once he reached the pair, before he turned to his brother. 

 

“Ned,” he murmured. “You called for me?” 

 

There was a twinkle of amusement in his brother’s eyes as he gazed at him, a charming grin formed on his lips. 

 

“Yes I did indeed,” Ned replied jovially. “I wanted to see whether or not I could make you brood less.” 

 

Richard chuckled quietly, offered his brother a similar grin. 

 

Ned rose steadily onto his feet. 

 

“Lord Stanley, thank you for telling me your news,” Ned told him. “I am in your debt.” 

 

Thomas Stanley’s dark eyes seemed almost black in the candlelight. He nodded obediently and in that moment, with his short, cropped grey hair and neatly trimmed beard, he didn’t look quite so suspicious. Ned offered him his coronation ring and Thomas Stanley bent down and kissed it before taking his leave. Edward wrapped an arm around Richard’s shoulders and escorted him to his bedchambers. Richard gently shut the door behind him. 

 

“Zeus’s name Richard, your thoughts play out on your face so plainly you may as well speak them,” Ned jested. His brother shook his head, sat casually on a nearby chair, gestured for Richard to do the same. 

 

“I don’t like the Stanleys,” Richard admitted. “And I trust them even less.” 

 

Ned let out a chuckle so loud Richard was startled. 

 

“You’re right not to trust the Stanleys,” Ned told him, his mouth twisting into a small smirk. “Stanley’s serve whoever they think will benefit them the most.” 

 

“Then when why do you treat with them so?” 

 

Ned’s eyes lurked with secrets and burdens Richard was not yet privy. 

 

“I’m a King, Richard,” he murmured rather solemnly. “If I were to only accept council from men I trust, my council chambers would be eternally empty.” He paused, gazed at Richard with fondness in his eyes. “Except you, truth be told. Which is why I’m giving this task to you.” 

 

Richard’s dark brows knotted together. 

 

“What task?” he asked confusedly. 

 

Ned smiled. 

 

“You know our dear brother in law Charles of Cilicia asked us for aid in his fight against the neighbouring city of —“ 

 

Richard let out a loud scoff. 

 

“If I have to read one more of his letters about the issue, I swear by the Gods my eyes will fall out of my skull!” 

 

Ned laughed at his brother, took a sip from his wine cup. 

 

“Well, little brother, I agreed to send aid to our dear Charles. I have not forgotten the aid he gave Troy.“ 

 

Richard sobered at that, and though he had little love for the man, he too was infinitely appreciative of the grain he supplied during those long six months of war. The tunnels had since been closed, and Ned had fulfilled his part of the arrangement — sent Charles jewels and other valuable silks and spices from the East that Troy had control over.

 

“And so I sent archers, soldiers and horses to aid him, and in return he granted me more land.” 

 

Richard stared at Edward, confusion continued to swirl in his eyes. 

 

“More land?” 

 

Most of Troy’s population lived in the city behind the large walls that contained thousands of inhabitants. Rich, poor. Merchants, butchers, handmaidens, servants, midwives. Of course there were several villages and farms that spread out near the coast, but they were all very close. Richard had lived in the mountains, land which was technically considered to be under Trojan rule, except he was so far from the city he identified more as a farmer than he did a Trojan. 

 

“Yes,” Ned confirmed readily. “He’s granted me several villages — rather populated too.” 

 

“Forgive me Ned, but I fail to see what that has to do with me.” 

 

Ned’s eyes danced with mirth as he stared at Richard. 

 

“He gave me Middleham, Richard. The name is fitting, I suppose, seeing as the land is in between Troy and Cilicia.” 

 

Richard remained silent. He had heard of Middleham before, when he was being taught the noble families and nearby cities of Troy as part of his lessons. Middleham was a small palace near several villages. Charles, apparently, allowed one of his appointed men to live there and rule over the villages — for those farms in particular were known to be quite fertile — which was supposed to be a high honour. 

 

“Gods,” Richard murmured, his eyes round with surprise. “I didn’t realise how desperate for aid he truly was.” 

 

Ned let out a small laugh. 

 

“Indeed.” 

 

His eyes carefully observed Richard’s face, revealed none of his thoughts. 

 

“Lord Stanley was telling me the people there aren’t entirely happy about this new arrangement.” 

 

“I can imagine,” Richard said, low enough that Ned could barely understand what he said. 

 

“I want the people there to accept Trojan rule — I don’t want them sabotaging crops or precious resources because of some vendetta. But Middleham is too far away for me to rule over directly. I’ll need someone to go there and inspire the people. Make them accept their new King.” 

 

Horror struck in Richard’s chest. 

 

“By Gods, Ned, you can’t mean to appoint Thomas Stanley — or his brother either?” 

 

Ned scoffed, looked mildly offended by the accusation. 

 

“Dear Gods no, Richard! I mean to keep them in line and make sure they know if they stay loyal it will be in their interest, but I do not have any desire to boost their greed even more.” 

 

Richard felt his heart calm, and he sank back in his chair, comforted by his brother’s reassurances. 

 

“Then who, Ned?” 

 

Ned met his gaze. 

 

“You.” 

 

“What?” Richard whispered, uncomprehending.  

 

“I mean to give you Middleham, Richard.” 

 

“Why?” 

 

Ned smiled thinly, took another sip of his wine. 

 

“Because you are one of the few people on this Earth who I trust, and I know that you do not like court so much. That you desire to be with your wife and son instead of taking part in my. . . _festivities._ ” 

 

“Ned —“ 

 

His brother waved his hand at him, dismissed his attempts to explain himself. 

 

“I’m not cross with you, Richard. I’m not. I know you’d never abandon your duties — that you desire to serve me faithfully. I take great comfort in your loyalty and wish to reward you for it. This way, you’re serving me greatly — it is a deal that benefits us both. Though I admit, I will greatly miss your daily company.” 

 

For a moment, Richard was moved beyond words. 

 

“Thank you, Ned,” he said sincerely. “I am unworthy of the honour.” 

 

—

 

And so he, Anne, little Ned, Francis and Veronique left for Middleham. It didn’t feel like a home, at first. The walls were too light, the streaks of blue that coated the walls were unfamiliar. Ned cried for days and even the adults seemed to be amiss; Middleham palace was far smaller than the city palace, and a great deal quieter. Richard and Francis grew used to the quiet faster than Anne or Veronique. 

 

They wouldn’t be staying at Middleham Palace all the time of course. Anne and Richard had agreed to split their time accordingly after they’d settled in and earned the respect of the people they were now charged over. Truth be told, Richard did not truly fault the people for their wariness. For years, they’d served Cilicia, and then with a swift use of ink they were now under the ownership of Troy. 

 

And Troy was far renowned for its wars than Cilcia. The people here craved peace, wanted nothing to do with the wars of those they considered ‘Southerners’. At times, Richard thought Ned’s choice was unwise; he and Anne were rumoured to be responsible for the second war with the House of Lancaster; the lovers who brought a thousand ships to their shores. 

 

But slowly, slowly, the ice in people’s eyes began to crack as they grew used to seeing Anne, Richard and Ned dining in the Great Hall, or how Richard and Francis genuinely knew how to manage sheep. He earned their respect little by little — saving the sheep from sudden illness, protecting the villages from raiders — until the day came nigh on a year later when Middleham finally felt like a _home._

 

“I wish everything would stay like this,” Anne murmured to him one night. 

 

Robert Brackenbury, Jack Howard and Rob Percy had come to visit from the city, and Rob had brought his young bride Nell and their daughter with him. After they’d finished their spectacular feast, they’d all retreated to Richard and Anne’s solar. Ned and Rob’s daughter were playing on the ground; Ned was showing off the carved sheep Francis had made for him as his playmate admired it with wide, owlish eyes. Veronique and Nell were giggling quietly by the fire, as the men raised their wine cups and laughed heartily at something Francis said. 

 

Richard had gone to retrieve something quickly, some papers he needed Jack Howard to take to his brother. Anne had followed him to retrieve her letter for Isabel, who she still corresponded with regularly. They stood in the doorway, watched their friends with peace in their hearts as they sought out the other’s hands. 

 

“An understandable wish I hope the Gods will fulfil,” Richard murmured in reply. 

 

Anne smiled at him, leaned her head against his shoulder. 

 

“I hope so,” she whispered. 

 

Richard pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. 

 

“The Gods have blessed us, my love. We shall be alright, I swear it.” 

 

And in that moment, it truly seemed like they would. 

 

ii. 

 

Three years had passed since Richard had been appointed with supervising Middleham and its villages and farms. Five years had passed since Troy had defeated the Greeks once and for all. 

 

Their lives were peaceful until —

 

Richard’s face was grave as he finished reading the letter in his hand. It was not uncommon for him to receive letters from the city — as a matter of fact it was _uncommon_ for him not to — but they had never made his face so taunt, so serious. 

 

“Richard?” Anne questioned, immediately disturbed by the expression on her husband’s face. “What has happened?” 

 

Sadness filled his grey eyes as he moved towards, placed his free hand on her shoulder. 

 

“My love,” he began, his voice gentle. 

 

At once, Richard saw Anne recognised the grief on his face, knew it was one she would soon share. He could see it in her eyes; how she thought of one person after another. Their Ned was sound asleep in his bed; Veronique and Francis lounged in their chambers in perfect health. Ned, his brother, was safe in the capital with peace across the realm. They had heard the Queen was well too — but Anne would not have just cause to truly grieve her, and nor would Richard, due to their mutual dislike for the woman. It wasn’t his mother for certain, nor George — 

 

“It’s Isabel. She did not recover from the birth of her third child. She died of childbed fever, my love, with her son soon following after her.” 

 

Anne’s skin instantly paled as her mouth fell open. 

 

“Oh dear Gods,” she whispered, struck with horror. Isabel had a dear friend to Anne, and Richard had liked her as well. 

 

His mind flashed to the last time they had seen her and George; they’d all gone back to the city six months ago. It had been a short trip, only a few weeks long. Isabel had glowed, three months with child she was. She had given George two children already; a boy and girl who they both had great affection for. Isabel had been confident she’d give him another son, and she had. 

 

And now she was dead. 

 

“We must leave at once,” she muttered. 

 

Richard pulled her to his chest by her hand and she immediately wrapped her arms around his waist, leaned her head against his chest. 

 

“George will be in mourning — we have to comfort him as well as the children.” 

 

Richard hummed in agreement, gently ran his hand up and down her back. 

 

— 

 

They reached Troy a few days afterwards in the dead of night. They were both in a hurry to reach the city, eager to make it in time for Isabel’s funeral. The city was eerily quiet as Richard helped Anne out of the wheelhouse. With hushed whispers, they told Veronique to settle Ned in his chambers, as he had long since fallen asleep. 

 

There were torches lit throughout the city, but it still felt oddly empty in the night, as though only ghosts and spirits roamed through the city. Richard shook his head and grabbed a hold of Anne’s hand. 

 

“I wish to see her,” she murmured. 

 

Richard nodded and, without a word, they both started to make their way to the Great Temple, where the bodies of members of the royal family were kept in preparation for the afterlife, and the body was laid in state for ten days before the cremation. 

 

It took some time to reach the Temple, the cool night air burned their lungs as they trudged into the temple. As per usual, offerings were laid out to the several gods and goddesses on the main floor, statues in their honour were dimly lit by nearby candles. Food, jewels, stains of blood littered the ground by the statues as Anne and Richard made their way to the back of the Temple. 

 

Isabel’s body was held in a private room near the back — at George’s insistence, Richard heard. Usually, the bodies were laid in state in a more public manner, so the people could also leave offerings to help Isabel in her journey in the underworld. But Richard himself found the idea rather unnerving; the thought of having his corpse on display for all to see, mock, judge or criticize chilled him to the bones, left a trace of bile in his mouth. 

 

Anne gasped quietly as they opened the door, to find Isabel, clad in a white gown that made her skin seem all the more ghostly, lying on a table straight ahead from them. Candles were lit nearby her head — the side of her arms. They could see the glimmer of gold jewels left near the corpse, her favourite bracelet, one of her daughter and son’s toys. 

 

“Isabel,” Anne whispered. 

 

She moved forward and kneeled beside the corpse, though Richard could see she was careful not to touch it. 

 

“She looks like she’s sleeping.” 

 

Richard whirled around, had his sword half unsheathed by the time he realised it was George who spoke. He hadn’t even realised his brother was in the room — George was sitting in the shadows. As he approached Richard, the candle light emphasised the emptiness in his eyes, the hollowness of his expression, how his usually large and charming brown orbs were rimmed red with drink. 

 

“Oh George,” Richard murmured and, in a rather uncharacteristic of show of affection, gently embraced his brother. “I am sorry for your loss.” 

 

He pulled away by the time George returned the embrace, and clasped a hand on his shoulder. 

 

Anne had risen as well, moved to take one of George’s hands in her own. 

 

“As am I,” she said quietly. 

 

George let them comfort him for several long moments, his mouth letting out small, broken sobs. Anne and Richard exchanged a look as George quickly dissolved into tears. George had never been in love with Isabel — at least not openly — and Richard suspected the marriage had been more of a political arrangement, one made by Warwick to bind George to him forever and ensure that his blood made its way onto the throne. He’d never been cruel to her, as far as Richard knew, but their marriage certainly had never been as warm or openly affectionate as his and Anne’s. 

 

The pair always seemed rather distant, even if that was breached with the births of their two children. 

 

“I really think I grew to love her,” George said, through the brief pauses between his sobs. “I truly think I did.” 

 

“I am sure she knew,” Anne told him soothingly. 

 

George pulled away from them so abruptly Richard nearly stumbled over. George’s eyes had suddenly narrowed — his cries of despair vanished into a suspicious, cold hearted expression as he glared at them. 

 

“ _She_ took her from me!” he exclaimed angrily, as he circled around Isabel’s corpse like a mother protecting its young. “The witch killed her with her poison and tricks! And my baby son too!” 

 

“George,” Richard said placatingly. “What witch?” 

 

His brother spat on the ground. 

 

“Why our dear brother’s _wife,_ of course. The Woodville bitch. She always hated Isabel — always glared at her, made her feel unwelcome. _She_ murdered Isabel! She did!” 

 

Richard glanced at Anne — saw the same horror on his face plastered on hers. 

 

“George, no,” he said softly, tried to grab a hold of his brother. “You are grief stricken, you must rest. Where are Maggie and Teddy?” 

 

“ _She_ killed her! _She’s_ a murderous witch!” 

 

“George, no —“ 

 

Richard stumbled backwards as George suddenly lunged towards him with a knife in his hands. Richard was so startled he could scarcely do anything, and soon George had grabbed a hold of his chiton in his hands. 

 

“Ned sent you, didn’t he?” 

 

“George wha — no!” 

 

“He’s always hated me — been suspicious! He’s worried his wife is going to be exposed for the monster she truly is!” George’s eyes darkened considerably as he placed the knife by Richard’s neck. “And he sent _you_ to spy on me! Admit it!” 

 

Anne appeared at George’s side, began to tug at his arm. 

 

“No, George, we don’t know anything about that,” she pleaded. “Stop this!” 

 

George turned, pointed the knife towards Anne instead, his paranoia and madness about to unleash on her instead. Richard’s heart flared at the sight, and before George could open his mouth he wrenched himself away and twisted George’s knife hand to his back, causing his brother to gasp in pain as Richard pushed him several feet away from them. 

 

“Don’t ever point a knife at my wife again!” he threatened. Richard bent down to pick up the fallen knife, held it tightly in his hand. Anne placed a soothing hand on his back, nudged her nose against his shoulder. 

 

“Lets go, my love,” she whispered. 

 

George soon bellowed similar sentiments. 

 

“Get out!” he moaned. “Leave us be!” 

 

Anne tugged Richard to the doorway but before they left, he turned to glance at his brother for one last time. 

 

_He’s mad,_ he thought. _By Gods, Isabel’s death has made him mad! Uncomprehending to all reason!_

 

He and Anne were quiet as they walked to the palace, too stunned to voice their disturbance at the state of George. 

 

“Grief can make people lose reason for a time,” Anne murmured. “Perhaps he will soon come to his senses.” 

 

Richard’s heart felt abnormally heavy in his chest, weighed down by sudden doubt. 

 

“I hope so,” he whispered. “By Gods, I hope so. If Ned hears George’s words. . .” 

 

He shuddered. 

 

He didn’t want to think about the damage George’s accusations would cause to an already fragile relationship. 

 

iii. 

 

“Richard!” Ned cried. He rose from his throne, embraced Richard warmly. “It has been too long since your last visit!” 

 

He pulled away before Richard had the chance to reply, his eyes flickered across his face critically. 

 

“By Gods man,” Ned said, “You look like you haven’t slept a wink!” 

 

Richard’s lips twitched. 

 

“I haven’t,” he admitted quietly. Then, in an even quieter voice, so no other would hear. “Anne and I saw George with Isabel last night.” 

 

At that, Ned’s expression darkened considerably. Richard felt his stomach clench, wondered briefly what damage George had done already with his foolish, drunken words. 

 

“The Lady Isabel’s death is a great tragedy Richard,” Ned said loudly, careful as always to quench any suspicion or rumour. “You are right to offer such profound expressions of grief and loss, along with your wife.” 

 

Ned turned to Anne, offered her a wide smile. 

 

“Why, you grow more beautiful as the years go by my lady.” 

 

Anne smiled weakly, offered her thanks in a quiet manner. Richard could feel the Queen bristle, found his eyes glancing towards her as Ned moved on to greet his son. Elizabeth Woodville looked as regal as ever, dressed in a light blue dress, with her golden hair tumbling down her shoulders and her crown upon her head. Her expression was cold as she met his gaze, calculating like no other. 

 

Richard stiffened as she looked at Anne, saw her eyes narrow with disapproval. 

 

“Ned,” he murmured, when his brother returned to him. “May we speak privately?” 

 

Ned’s eyes were aloof as he nodded, and with a wave of his hands he dismissed all of the other courtiers from the room. Anne glanced at Richard meaningfully, and without having to speak, she gently grabbed a hold of their son, began directing him out of the room. 

 

“But I don’t want to go!” Ned was complaining. “Please, mother —“ 

 

“No,” Anne interrupted. “Come, we will go play with Francis for a while before you have to go to your lessons.” 

 

The door shut behind them, cutting off their voices in a flash. 

 

Richard turned, saw Ned had sat upon his throne once more. 

 

“You have a good son, Richard,” his brother commented pleasantly, trying his best to ignore the elephant in the room — the reason for his request. “He should play with my Edward more often, when they are both at court.” 

 

As was the custom in Troy, the heir to the throne was sent with a trusted advisor around the neighbouring cities, learning with the most intelligent and infamous tutors before he returned as a Prince of the city. Ned had chosen Anthony Woodville to be his son’s guardian. 

 

“Of course,” Richard agreed smoothly. 

 

An awkward pause followed as he struggled to find the words to speak. 

 

“Ned,” he began. “About George —“ 

 

“What of him?” his brother asked. His voice was tired — surprisingly so. 

 

Richard cast a quick, furtive glance at the Queen, who was staring at him cooly, her mouth a thin line. 

 

“He is taking Isabel’s death rather hard,” he started gently. “He behaved in a most. . . _unruly_ manner when Anne and I went to visit Isabel’s body last night.” 

 

Ned raised an eyebrow. 

 

“By unruly, you mean bordering on madness do you not?” he questioned drily. 

 

Richard blinked with surprise before he nodded. 

 

“I’ve never seen him so crazed,” he admitted. “Never.” 

 

“Me as well,” Ned said. 

 

Silence. 

 

Richard was close to Ned — loved his brother fiercely and devotedly, had ever been obedient to him except when it came to Anne. He asked of him little, had no desire to usurp or betray Ned in any way shape or form, even if he had little love for his haughty wife. 

 

That was everything George lacked. 

 

George _had_ betrayed Ned; had conspired to usurp his throne and cast him aside, shared blood be damned. He _had_ valued his own ambition over his brother’s life. And that was why Richard felt so awkward asking Ned to be merciful, to forgive yet another one of George’s blunders. 

 

“His wife’s death has unhinged him in ways I — or anyone else — might have expected, your grace,” Richard said carefully. 

 

It was then the Queen took it upon herself to speak. 

 

“Unhinged enough to publicly accuse me of murder. Of poisoning his wife and newborn son. His accusations are the talk of the court, my lord, and you expect me to sit by and let my honour and good name be sullied as such?” 

 

Richard glanced at Ned, saw him eyeing his wife with consideration. Richard had expected her opposition and protests, had long known that she hated George after Warwick’s rebellion, seeing as the latter had executed her father and one of her many brothers. It was why he had asked for Ned’s mercy, and not hers. In truth, he may have blundered in that, seeing as it was _she_ who was being accused of murder, and _she_ who would be unable to defend herself if Ned ignored George’s accusation. 

 

Richard met her gaze unwaveringly, and spoke softly but firmly, careful not to provoke. 

 

“My brother George is most aggrieved by his wife and son’s sudden and most unexpected death, my lady. His words are that of someone who, as the Gods have deemed fit, is not in the right state of mind at the moment. My brother needs time to grieve, and come to his senses.” 

 

She raised a perfectly arched brow. 

 

“And you, Prince Richard, do not think your elder brother will commit any other outlandish and madness induced acts due to his sudden grief? You think your brother will realise that I played no part in his wife and son’s death, and that it was due to childbed fever and nothing more?” 

 

“Yes,” Richard replied readily, trying to install a confidence he did not entirely feel. “Yes, I am sure he will.” 

 

— 

 

Richard was wrong. 

 

A week after Isabel and her son’s bodies had been burned and their ashes collected, George arrested one of Isabel’s handmaidens. She was an elderly women, had retired to her daughter’s household in the lower city when George’s men had dragged her out of bed in the dead of the night, along with another member of the Queen’s household, a poor stableboy who had been in the Queen’s presence as many times as Richard had the Gods. 

 

There, before Edward had even heard of it, George — as Prince of Troy — had commanded the nearby peasants to build a makeshift scaffold, and publicly accused the woman and the stableboy of poisoning his wife and newborn son on the Queen’s orders. Despite the people’s protests and cries for a trial — and the accused’s pleas of innocence, George ordered them to hang. 

 

Rumour had it, when Ned’s guards appeared to arrest George and bring him forth the King, he was standing there, gazing at the hanging bodies as though they were the most beautiful thing on Earth. 

 

“I will bring the Woodville witch to justice if it is the last thing I do!” he supposedly screamed. “And awake my brother to how he has been bewitched!” 

 

Richard had recently arrived in Middleham when he heard news of George’s arrest and dismissal into the palace dungeons, and the ferocity in which he cursed himself for leaving the city so soon made Francis, a farmer and shepherd by birth, blush. 

 

“By Gods,” Richard raged. “My brother has gone mad! What in Zeus’s name was he thinking?” He did not wait for Francis to reply before he continued his ranting. “He seemed subdued by the time we left — he even promised to come to Middleham soon, or at the very least send the children! I should have seen — should have known. . .” 

 

If Richard had looked at Francis, he would have seen the doubt on his friend’s face. _Known what?_ Francis thought. Who could have predicated George’s rash and unjust actions? If someone had even voiced such an idea before George committed this atrocity, they would have been severely reprimanded or condemned as a madman. 

 

George had done the unthinkable. He had openly — and _very, very publicly_ — accused the Queen of being both a witch and a murderer, openly went against the King’s justice by accusing and sentencing two untried members of society — who had both been a part of the royal household — and confessed his unwavering belief that the King was bewitched to do whatever the ‘Woodville Witch’ desired. There was little, if anything, Richard could do — or could have done — to restore his brother’s good name and reason and save the accused from their gruesome and unjust deaths. 

 

When Richard sent for Anne to tell her the news, he collapsed into his chair, uncharacteristically pale. 

 

“Richard,” Francis began, before he stopped abruptly. There was something that lingered on his mind, a thought that made his stomach clench. “You don’t believe the King will. . .” His throat grew dry. He dared not finish the thought, believed if he did he would breathe life into it. 

 

Richard did not need Francis to finish his sentence, it seemed the thought had lingered on his mind as well. 

 

“Do I believe my brother will exact deathly punishment on George?” He paused, seemed to consider the thought carefully. “He will most probably take away some of his lands and income — perhaps keep him under guard for several more months. But he would not ever take it any further than that — my brother always spoke ill of George for being so willing to betray him and see him dead during Warwick’s rebellion. I highly doubt he would ever commit an act that he always thought low of George for.” 

 

Richard’s mind flashed to his mother, who mourned her second eldest son still. “And Ned would not do that to Mother — he would never cause her such pain. Definitely not on George’s account, who anyone with a brain can see is fervently deranged.” 

 

Francis nodded, and tried his hardest to hide his doubts. He wondered if George had ventured too far this time. 

 

When Anne was told of the news with Francis and Veronique in attendance, he could tell by the pale look on her face she was slightly more wary than Richard, less likely to believe in her brother-in-law’s good will and strong belief in shared blood. 

 

“I must prepare to leave for the city at once,” Richard said and rose to his full height. 

 

“I will come with you,” Anne declared. 

 

Richard paused, gave her a grateful smile. Francis was relieved as well. There were very few who could soothe Richard’s temper when he got into one of his rare rages, and Anne was by far the most successful at getting him to regather his composure. His mind flashed back to five and a half years before, when Richard and Anne had stood before the King and Queen to plead for her to stay in Troy. 

 

And so it was decided. 

 

Anne and Richard would travel to the city the next morn, and Francis and Veronique would stay in Middleham with Ned. But Richard was confident they would soon be able to return, maybe even with George and his children. He was sure he could convince Ned to let George go under his care, give him time to see reason. 

 

He was sure of it. 

 

iv. 

 

Richard knew not what he expected to see when he saw Ned, but what appeared before him was not it. 

 

His brother seemed guarded as he gazed at him, his expression carefully neutral as Richard bowed and offered his goodwill. Ned knew why Richard had come, and, unlike the last he was at court — Gods, had it only been three weeks ago — he did not need to dance around with his words. 

 

Ned knew why he had come, and was eager to be done with it. 

 

Without any of his usual prompt or charm, Ned dismissed himself from the throne room with Richard at his heels, and quickly directed him to the privacy of his solar. 

 

“Well,” his brother said, uncharacteristically grave. “Plead George’s case.” 

 

Richard was more than unsettled. He had been so sure that Ned would forgive George in time, that all would be well. He now felt uncommonly naive and foolish, and, with less tact than he should have used, he blurted out, “Ned, you do not mean to execute George? He is your brother!” 

 

The coldness in Ned’s eyes made his back straighten. 

 

“As if that means anything to George,” Ned snapped. “Need I remind you, brother, of his many and seemingly endless betrayals? Of his ingratitude for my forgiveness? My willingness to look past his follies? And how has he repaid my goodwill? With treason and slander! No, I do not mean to execute George, but if I plan to keep him imprisoned for the rest of his days, it is no concern of yours!” 

 

Richard steadied himself, tried to calm his rapidly beating heart. 

 

“Ned,” he started gently. “I did not mean to insult you — it is just, with my being away at Middleham a lot of the time, I am much removed from court life, and am constantly subject to vicious rumours. I have heard countless of your intent to execute George and accuse him of high treason, but none of your usual clemency. I was worried, that’s all.” 

 

“My usual clemency,” Ned repeated. He rubbed his eyes, suddenly looked twenty years older than he actually was. Years of constant drinking and feasting had made his brother’s once firm and muscular body grow loose and round. 

 

“Tell me, brother, are you worthy of my clemency? You who put this city at war for a woman you had talked to all of two times? Who Aphrodite practically promised to you? Was that the basis of your everlasting love? Two conversations, one night of passion and the influence of the Goddess of love? Gods be good, Richard. Neither of you had a choice.” 

 

Anger swelled in his chest, anger which took every inch of his self control to quell. 

 

“What,” he questioned lowly. “Does Anne have anything to do with this?” 

 

Ned laughed so mockingly Richard’s hands almost tightened into fists. 

 

“Nothing! It strikes me as odd that my brothers cause me so much trouble and strife!” 

 

It was tiredness and frustration that swam in Ned’s eyes, not any personal hatred. That cooled Richard somewhat, made him realise that the situation with George troubled him more than Richard had expected. 

 

“I will take my leave to my chambers, my lord,” he said formally. “Forgive me for adding onto to your troubles. Perhaps we could converse at another time.” 

 

Ned’s lips twisted into a jeering smile. 

 

“Maybe,” he told him. 

 

Richard bowed, turned on his heel and stalked out of the room. 

 

He did not see the flickers of regret in his brother’s eyes, nor did he hear his whispers for forgiveness — from the Gods or from Richard or George, he did not know. 

 

— 

 

It ate at him, what Ned said. He knew it shouldn’t have. Knew that his brother only said it to get a rise out of him, had probably not even meant it. Richard was sure of Anne’s love, was sure that he loved her. He was as sure of that as he was of how to breathe. 

 

And he loved their son. Loved him with a passion of a thousand burning suns. 

 

Yet, doubts and insecurities kept him up at night, prevented him from sleeping. Richard loved Anne yes. Loved her because of her kindness and humour, because of the mother she was, loved her smile and her eyes. Loved her before he even knew her, when she was still only a ghost in his dreams. 

 

Aphrodite hadn’t promised Richard Anne’s love, only the chance to meet her. 

 

That had been what he wanted. 

 

He hadn’t expected her to love him, or he to love her. 

 

In truth, for many years, he hadn’t been sure what he would do when he finally met her. It was only when he first saw her that he realised how much he cared, how much he really loved the girl in his dreams, even though he had never met her until then. 

 

“What is it?” Anne whispered one night. “What is troubling you, my love?” 

 

Richard was restless, eager to talk and just as desperate not to trouble her, or stress her. But Anne, besides Francis, was his closest friend. He rarely kept secrets from her, and decided he had no intention of starting now. 

 

“Anne,” he began awkwardly. He twisted his head so he could look down at her from where her head lay on his chest. “Why did you fall in love with me? In Sparta?” Nerves made him ramble on. “We barely knew each other —“ 

 

“What brought this on?” she questioned quietly. She rolled off his chest, propped herself up on her elbows right by his side. “My love?” 

 

“Edward,” he replied. “Ned said things in anger when we arguing over George, things that while I know shouldn’t let bother me, still do.” 

 

At her eyes gentle probing, he continued. 

 

“He said the only reason we fell in love in Sparta was due to Aphrodite. He said that a few handful of conversations and a night of passion hardly constitute for the love we both claim to feel.” 

 

A bitter smile formed on his mouth. He was distinctly aware of the beating of his heart, of the sudden fear that she would agree with what Edward said. 

 

“You know what I first thought when I saw you?” she asked instead. The long tresses of her hair brushed his bare chest. “In my dreams and in real life?” 

 

“What?” 

 

“I thought you had the kindest eyes I’d ever seen,” Anne told him. 

 

“Anne. . .” 

 

“Let me finish, Dickon,” she interrupted softly. “I can scarcely remember a time when I did not dream of you. I dreamt of you when you were a boy, with your gangly arms and thin legs. I dreamt of you when you were not yet a man, with your awkward smile and growing limbs. I dreamt of you through it all, Richard. Saw you when you were small and thin and tall and muscular. So many things in my world changed; my father died, I married Edouard. . . even you changed. But one thing that never did were your eyes. Your soft, grey eyes were so kind and gentle they made me feel more safe and loved in an hour’s sleep than Edouard did in years of marriage.” 

 

Anne placed a hand over his heart. “Richard, when I met you in Sparta, I may not have known everything about you. I may have been oblivious to what your favourite food or colour was, or which brother you preferred. I did not know what you did or did not want from life or whether or not you were happy.” She pressed her hand a little into his chest, right over his thundering heart. “But this,” she said urgently. “This, I’ve known since I was a child.” 

 

And with a quick kiss on her lips and both of their minds at ease, Richard fell asleep, clinging to whatever remained of his belief that this would all be over soon, and they would be happy once more. 

 

v. 

 

It was shortly after he and Anne had woken the next morn that Richard first heard the news. 

 

Rob Percy and Robert Brackenbury burst into their chambers without much decorum, and before Richard could properly gather his thoughts, Rob told him the news so hurriedly Richard barely understood him. 

 

“Your brother, Prince George, has been accused of treason, and is sentenced to die by order of the King.” 

 

A gasp echoed across the room, and it took him several moments to realise the sound came from his lips. 

 

“What?” he demanded, disbelieving. 

 

Rob looked sympathetic as he gazed at Richard, tried to explain as gently as possible that the King announced through his high Priest Stillington, that the Gods had declared George must die in order for Troy to be secure. He would be executed within the following days, and kept under lock and key until then. 

 

“What of my mother?” Richard asked. “Does she know?” 

 

He had seen his mother the night before, after he had left Ned. He’d never seen her look so tired, and it pained him to realise that her sons were causing her more ill and trouble in their adult lives then they ever did in their childhood. She’d been calm, relatively confident that George would soon be released, though she’d worried greatly about his state of mind. 

 

_Gods Mother, I’m so sorry._

 

“He can’t,” he murmured, rising to his feet as his heartbeat quickened. “He can’t! This is the Queen — she’s always hated George —“ 

 

Richard moved towards the door, was stopped by Anne suddenly grabbing a hold of his arm. 

 

“Dickon you must calm,” she told him gently. Her hand tightened around his arm like a vice. “You can’t go pleading for George like this. Your temper will be the end of you.” 

 

“Temper?” Richard questioned incredulously, with perhaps more bite than deserved. “He’s my brother! He’s _Ned’s_ brother as well. How — how in Zeus’ name can he even contemplate such an idea —“ 

 

He rambled on for a few moments, before he closed his eyes and took a few long, calming deep breaths. Anne was right. If he’d gone to Edward emotional and enraged, he would not have been able to articulate to his brother’s senses properly — could not appeal to his good graces. His mind involuntarily flashed to Ned’s taunting the night before and with another deep breath, he felt himself calm, locked his anger and frustration away deep down inside him. 

 

“There you go,” Anne murmured, once he opened his eyes. 

 

He flashed her a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, kissed her tenderly and then they left. 

 

The courtiers whispered fervently as they walked by — him, Rob, Brackenbury and Anne. All the court — all of the city was probably gossiping about the fate of Prince George. Most were either wearily triumphant or overtly smug — George was little loved and even less liked, but some at least had the foresight to realise that Ned could change his mind, and he may exact his fury on those who urged him to execute his brother. 

 

But others, like the Woodvilles, were celebrating their victory with jibes that made Richard’s jaw lock. As he and Anne entered the throne room, he heard Thomas Grey, Elizabeth Woodville’s eldest son by her first husband, speak of a grey mare George owned that he wished to have and would soon own. As if his brother was already dead yet. 

 

Grey paled when he caught sight of him, his cheeks flushed brightly as he stammered. By the time Richard and Anne had reached Ned and the Queen, Richard’s anger had slowly begun to return. 

 

“Your grace,” he said stiffly. Anne murmured similar sentiments. Rob Percy and Brackenbury had retreated to the side of the room, aware that this was a family dispute and that their support could only be shown from a distance. 

 

“Richard.” 

 

Ned’s eyes were cold as they stared at him, looking unnaturally hollow. 

 

“Mother already came and went,” he told him curtly. “I doubt you have any arguments she did not voice.” 

 

Richard’s eyes darted to the Queen, and though her mouth was even, Richard could see a gleam in her eye that made him bristle. 

 

“Please, Ned,” he said. “I ask you for mercy.” 

 

It was the Queen who spoke. 

 

“The same mercy George showed the Lady Ariadne, who served his departed wife faithfully for many years? Or the boy who served as one of by stablehands, who had not yet reached twenty years of life?” 

 

“I ask not for his crimes to be forgotten, Madame,” Richard replied cooly, met her stare without any reservations. “Only for the King to show mercy to his brother.” 

 

“Why?” she inquired. “Did you yourself not promise his actions and accusations would not escalate?” 

 

That made Richard pause. 

 

“My lady,” Anne spoke quietly. “Neither my husband nor anyone else could have foreseen what Prince George would do. If my husband — for whatever reason — had done so, he would have stopped it. He asks not for George to be forgiven and justice not to be done, but only for mercy. Not for only for George’s sake, but for his mother’s — his children. For the King himself.” 

 

Pride swelled in his chest as he stared at her and he brushed his hand against hers as a means of expressing his thanks. She caught his eye, smiled softly as her eyes urged him to continue. 

 

He glanced at Ned, saw his brother was staring at him intently, his hands clasped together in his lap. Hope surged in his chest, made him gather his senses and speak once more. 

 

“Ned, the Gods did not grant the three sons of Troy another chance so we could destroy and kill one another. We are brothers, all three of us, and despite the hurdles and hardships we cause one another that can not change. If you do this, if you take the stain of fratricide on your soul, it will be a stain you will never wash out. Please, Ned. Show clemency.” 

 

His brother’s lips twitched as he stared at Richard, and his heart swelled as he saw the tears pierce his eyes. 

 

“No,” Ned said, the epitome of calmness and absolution. “I will not halt the sentence, and that is the final say I have on the matter.” 

 

As quickly as Richard’s hopes had risen, they were dashed just as fast. So quickly did they evaporate it felt like his heart had died in his chest. A multitude of emotions swelled in his heart — anger, frustration, sadness, defeat. 

 

“I would see him, your grace,” he said limply. He could offer George comfort at the least — assure him that his children would be cared for, that his mother and brother loved him, had fought for him. 

 

“No.” 

 

Richard inhaled painfully. He could feel Anne stiffen with astonishment. 

 

“That is what the King and I have decreed, Prince Richard,” the Queen added. “You would do well to remember and abide by it.” 

 

The hatred that swelled in his chest poisoned his heart. 

 

“The Gods never forget Madam,” he said ominously. “And neither do I.” 

 

He turned his gaze towards Ned. 

 

“I am taking Maggie and Teddy with me to Middleham,” he told him, uncaring as to what he might say. 

 

Richard swiftly whirled around with Anne quick to follow — he did not ask Ned for his permission. 

 

“I could tell my guards to throw you in the dungeons as well!” Ned cried suddenly. “I could stop you from taking those children anywhere!” 

 

Richard no longer felt any anger or sadness, merely a cold, icy stone lay where his heart remained. The loyalty and love he felt for his brother had been diminished in that instant, and as he turned to look at his brother, he was sure it showed. 

 

A stab of envy pierced his heart as his eyes landed on the golden crown resting upon Ned’s head — if he had that crown, he could save George, purge the court of those who would advocate for a King to kill his own brother — if he had that crown, _he_ would have the power,  but his envy vanished as quick as it had come. 

 

Richard had no desire to be King. 

 

Not if it corrupted someone so greatly they could commit a crime such as this. 

 

“George does not deserve your loyalty, Richard,” Ned continued, uncaring that what little remained of the court could hear. 

 

He tilted his head, stared at his elder brother with an iciness he did not know he possessed. 

 

“Do you?” Richard questioned sharply, and left the room before Ned could form a reply. 

 

vi. 

 

Anne and Richard left the city with Maggie and Teddy as soon as their chests had finished being packed. Rob Percy and Robert Brackenbury accompanied them. 

 

Richard’s mother saw them off. 

 

“Be well,” she had murmured against his neck. “I can’t lose you too.” 

 

The words pained Richard greatly. He was tempted to ask her again to come to Middleham, but knew once his mother made up her mind, she would not change it. 

 

Middleham looked just as they left it, as though nothing had changed. As though Richard were not short of one brother. 

 

Ned ran towards him, giggling and smiling as he beckoned his father to pick him up. 

 

“Tell me of the city, Father!” he begged. 

 

Richard petted his son’s dark head affectionately, but his eyes sought out Francis, who knew by the appearance of Maggie and Teddy that Richard had failed in his mission. Francis’s face tightened as he approached them. Veronique conversed with Rob and Brackenbury quietly, shot Richard and Anne sympathetic looks when they told her the news. 

 

George was dead. 

 

“Come my love,” Anne said. She scooped Ned up in her arms, directed him towards his cousins. “Your cousins have come to stay at Middleham.” 

 

Ned’s squeal of excitement echoed throughout the courtyard. He turned to glance at Anne, shot her a grateful look when she caught his eye. 

 

_Go,_ she mouthed. 

 

Richard let Francis guide him away. 

 

They walked in silence towards the gardens. They were small, but beautiful, with three or four willow trees hanging above a small pond. There were water lilies and tulips in Spring, but now that it was winter everything was duller. The flowers were bulbed — but the gardens would be empty, to be sure, and Richard needed cool fresh air. 

 

He felt stifled enough already. 

 

A cup of wine was offered to him by Francis, who snagged two cups and a jug from a servant on the way. Richard accepted it gratefully and sat down, leaned against the trunk of the willow tree they were under. The long, sweeping branches and leaves kept them hidden from prying eyes — not that they were many in Middleham, but every household had its gossips. 

 

“I was never particularly close to George,” he said faintly. 

 

He placed his cup in between his legs. 

 

“To be fair to Ned, there were times when I was angry enough to kill him myself,” he continued. 

 

Francis remained quiet. 

 

“Like when he insinuated Anne was a —“ Richard’s lips twisted with distaste. 

 

“You remember,” he amended. 

 

Francis did. 

 

“Or even when he joined Warwick in his rebellion, looking to be King.” 

 

Darkness fluttered in his grey eyes, made his brows furrow as he thought. 

 

“I disliked George when I first met him, and the Gods know that feeling was mutual. He mistrusted me from the start, and made no secret to hide the fact. Ned has more reason than most to be angry with George, to hate him — I don’t deny it. But why in Zeus’ name would he choose to punish him for those crimes now? Anyone with semblance of a sound mind would see George is mad — both by grief and of his own mind.”

 

He took a deep breath, his passionate rant peaking. 

 

“I just don’t understand why Ned decided to execute him now. He forgave George so much in the past — when George had no excuse or reason to be disloyal besides his own greed and selfishness. None could have predicated how Isabel’s death would affect him. George has always rambled on about the Woodville’s — he’s probably the one responsible for most of the nasty rumours! I simply can not comprehend why Ned would punish him so now, when he had more cause to do it ten years ago.” 

 

Richard sighed loudly, ran a hand over his face in frustration. 

 

“I barely recognised him, Francis,” he murmured, his heart sagging. “I don’t know who this Ned is — it wasn’t that long ago since I was at court before this. Not long enough for Ned to change so.” 

 

Francis had to fight to stay silent now. He knew Richard had always been blind to his brother’s faults — the occasional laziness, the impulsiveness, his increasing temper and clear disregard for his health — and was aware that his friend would grow more guilty and sullen if Francis pointed out that the King of Troy of today was different to the King of Troy of five years ago. 

 

Drink, women and glory had sought to that. 

 

“You’re not to blame for your brother’s choices, Dickon,” Francis told him. 

 

Richard let out a small laugh which baffled Francis. He had not meant for his words to be amusing. 

 

“It’s not you, Francis,” he assured him, once he caught sight of his friend’s face. “I just can’t help but worry of what the Gods will make of this.” 

 

“The Gods?” Francis asked. “What do they have to do with anything?” 

 

Richard took a quick sip of his wine. 

 

“Do you know the story of Orestes of Thessaloniki?” he questioned. 

 

“No.” 

 

“Orestes was the Prince of Thessaloniki. His father had been Agamemnon, and his mother was Andromache. Agamemnon was a powerful King — ruthless and ambitious to a fault. He left for war when Orestes was a child. In order to set sail, he sacrificed his only daughter with Andromache to the Goddess Artemis, who demanded her life as penance for him forgetting to honour Artemis in his haste to go to war. He returned ten years later with a Princess of the city he conquered. She was a slave, of course, who Agamemnon had taken as a lover. But during those ten years he was away, Andromache fell in love with one of her husband’s main opponents. He sought revenge on Agamemnon for killing his father, and so he convinced Andromache to murder her husband when he returned. It was rather easy to do, since Andromache never forgave him for killing her beloved daughter. ” 

 

“And so she murdered him. She welcomed Agamemnon home, drew him a bath and let the slave girl join him. And then, when he least expected it, she threw a net over them both and stabbed them to death.” 

 

“What does that have to do with anything?” Francis questioned, when Richard had stopped. 

 

“Let me finish,” he murmured. “Andromache and her lover then usurped the throne and became regents until Orestes came of age. When he did reach eighteen, he killed his mother’s lover and then the Mother in order to avenge his father.” 

 

Francis whistled. The willingness of royal families to slaughter their own astounded him. 

 

Bitterness swirled in Richard’s eyes. 

 

“But you see, while the Gods admired Orestes for avenging his father, they disapproved of him murdering his mother, and so they sent curses and ill omens his way, until he lost two wives, five sons and three daughters before he was struck by one of Zeus’s mighty bolts and killed.” 

 

Francis felt his heart squirm with unease. 

 

“The Gods never forget, Francis,” Richard told him quietly. “And I fear to think what they will do to Ned because of this.” 

 

vii. 

 

Six months had passed since George’s death when Richard saw his eldest brother again. 

 

The Gods wrath that he feared so much had not occurred, and Ned continued to live happily and healthily. 

 

Troy continued to prosper, and his family and friends were joyful. 

 

And so Richard’s fears began to ease a little, when Ned wrote to him and told him of his upcoming visit to Middleham. 

 

He had not written to his brother for months — only sent his obligatory reports as to the harvest and cattle, and reaving from the small mountain tribes that lingered nearby. 

 

“Your brother is coming here?” 

 

Richard had finally convinced his mother to come to Middleham for a visit — to come see her grandchildren. He and Anne had been surprised when she accepted, and both were delighted she’d decided to extend her stay for another week, having already been there for a fortnight. 

 

“Yes,” he replied, observing his mother carefully. 

 

It was, as usual, to no avail. 

 

His mother’s features had grown stern and cold, her eyes revealed none of her thoughts. She had not forgiven Ned for George, and neither had Richard. He hadn’t seen his elder brother since he left. 

 

Anne clucked her tongue, tucked one of her russet curls behind her ears. 

 

She didn’t try and convince Richard to refuse the invitation. 

 

She knew as well as he that was not possible. If Ned decided to come to Middleham, there was nothing Richard could do about it. They both knew it was no coincidence he announced his plans while Richard’s mother was still there. 

 

No doubt he wished to kill two birds with one stone. 

 

“We must start to prepare for the royal visit,” she murmured. “I shall talk to the cooks at once.” 

 

She rose from her chair, patted the silks of her dress as she made for the door. Impulsively, Richard grabbed her wrist, gently pulled her to his side. 

 

_She’s so thin,_ he thought. He loosed wrapped his thumb and forefinger around her wrist. 

 

“Don’t overtire yourself,” he told her softly. “Please.”

 

Anne had not yet fully recovered from a cold she had caught from one of the servants. She had spent a week in bed, coughing and sneezing to the point Richard worried she had a fever. Luckily, the physicians managed to cure her ailment, and she’d been out of bed for a week now. But he still worried, despite the physicians — and her own — reassurances. 

 

She rolled her eyes but a small smile played on her lips, told him she was not truly annoyed. 

 

“I won’t,” she replied. Anne bent down, pressed a soft kiss to his forehead before she pulled away and left the room. 

 

“You still worry about her cold returning?” 

 

“Yes,” Richard answered steadily. He felt slightly sheepish under his mother’s intrusive gaze. “If anything happened to her. . .” He let his voice trail off. The thought was unthinkable. 

 

“You’ve done well, my son,” Cecily said. 

 

His grey eyes widened with surprise. It was a very rare occasion when his mother demonstrated affection or complimented her sons. No, she was much more quiet and reserved with her love. She had been affectionate when he had suddenly returned years prior, but soon she had showed him the same level of tenderness she did with the rest of her children. 

 

“Thank you, Mother,” he said, moved beyond words. 

 

Neither of them spoke of their feelings regarding Ned’s upcoming visit. 

 

— 

 

When Ned arrived a fortnight later with the rest of the royal family — excluding Anthony Woodville and Ned’s eldest son — the first thing Richard thought was _thank the Gods for the children._

 

For they all got along surprisingly splendidly. 

 

The eldest of Ned’s children — Elizabeth (nicknamed Bess by her family) and Cecily — were delightful, generous girls who Richard was immensely fond of. Unfortunately, the middle sister Mary, had died around two years prior. Ned’s youngest son, Richard, was a gentle boy, and despite his shyness Richard saw he and his own son running and playing with Teddy. 

 

The children made up for all the enthusiasm the adult’s lacked. 

 

After smooth and icy pleasantries were made, the Queen quickly asked where her chambers were, sighting her latest pregnancy as an excuse to rest. Anne escorted her there a thin smile, and the look she shot him when they walked past nearly made him laugh. 

 

He knew Anne was grateful to his brother  for letting her stay during the war, for allowing them to remain apart of the royal family and the clear favour Ned showed Richard. But Elizabeth had made no secret of her disdain for Anne. 

 

When they had gotten married, she had told her — in front of everyone — that she hoped this marriage was more successful than her first. 

 

With Anne and Elizabeth’s departure, that left Ned, Richard, Francis, other members of the Woodville clan and their mother in the room while the children played a few doors down. Richard took the awkward silence as a chance to observe his brother. Time had not been kind to him. Ned’s eyes had grown darker, more bloodshot. What once were faint signs of a double-chin had now developed greatly, making his chin seem rather like a goat’s. Traces of his once remarkably handsome features remained, but Richard was suddenly struck with the realisation that it would not last long. 

 

Ned would soon no longer look like the Golden King anymore. 

 

He thought of his brother a decade ago in the city games, how fast and quick and muscular he was and now. . . 

 

“I would like to speak to my mother and brother alone,” Ned said, once the silence had become stifling. 

 

Richard stiffened as the rest of the party rose from their seats, looking rather relieved by their dismissal. Francis shot him a small, sympathetic smile as he made his way out the door. They all knew why Ned wished to speak to them — hells, all of the city knew why Ned had come to Middleham. 

 

Richard wondered briefly how his brother would approach this. _Would he try and justify his actions to Mother? Would he reveal his regret?_ He did not know, and it irked him.

 

“I know neither of you have forgiven me for George,” Ned started. He kept his gaze low as he spoke, as though he could not quite bring himself to meet their gaze. 

 

Their mother shifted in her chair, but gazed resolutely at Edward. She would hear his piece without complaint, but only she would know how to react. 

 

“I know that neither of you understand why I had him —“ he stopped short, reconsidered his words. “I know neither of you can justify why I did what I did, and I do not blame you. You think I could have been more lenient with George — showed him the mercy I had before. He had just lost his wife and newborn son, after all.” 

 

He lifted his eyes, and the look in his brother’s blue orbs made his heart ache. 

 

“I won’t ask either of you to forget what I did, nor do I ask you to try and justify it. All I will say is that while it may have not seemed like it to either of you, George had gone too far — pushed too much, and I felt — and do still — that if he lived, he would have brought nothing but destruction and death to us all.” 

 

“But he was our brother, Ned,” Richard heard himself say. “You always criticised George for wanting you dead during Warwick’s rebellion. You called him every name under the book, and I know you never forgave him for it. I can’t understand how you changed so — to be willing to do something such as this.” 

 

Ned’s blue eyes grew round as he stared at his youngest brother — the only brother he had left. The one he loved and trusted the most.

 

“Can’t you trust that I felt like I had to do it? That if I didn’t, the whole of Troy would be in peril? Richard, have you ever known me to be cruel? To kill when it was not necessary?” 

 

Richard felt his heart tighten as his lips parted. 

 

“Before George, no,” he admitted truthfully. 

 

“I don’t ask you to forgive me for it, only that you understand that _I,_ the King of Troy, felt like I had to do it. That George left me with no other choice.” 

 

Richard thought of George — of his handsome features, of his continuous follies and betrayals, and then he thought of the blood they shared, of _Good luck_ on a sunny day five and a half years prior and — 

 

He missed Ned. This distance between them bothered Richard more than he knew how to express. Being at odds with Ned for long — truly, genuinely at odds, was a foreign concept to him, and one which he did not like much. It was the only time since he had sworn fealty to his brother that Ned felt like a stranger to him. 

 

“I’ve missed you, Richard,” Ned told him quietly. His features betrayed a vulnerability that robbed Richard of breath. “I knew the first time I saw you — when I was injured and ill and fighting the Lancaster’s the first time — that you were good. You took care of me, even though you did not know who I was. I rely on you, and trust you more than I do anyone else.” 

 

And despite himself, despite the feelings of betrayal that lingered, Richard forgave him, for the hurt and despair in his brother’s eyes was genuine, and Richard believed him. 

 

“I have missed you as well,” he said. His gaze moved to their mother, who continued to sit silently. Her gaze had lowered to the ground as she plaid with her hands. 

 

Ned slipped out of his chair, moved to kneel in front of her. 

 

“Will you forsake me, Mother?” he questioned softly. “Will you reserve your forgiveness only for George?” 

 

They had all needed to forgive George — for his deadly ambition for the crown, when he joined Warwick in his ill forsaken rebellion, those two foolish battles in the second war against Lancaster — and his mother had done so each time, when George had shown little remorse. Now Ned _was_ genuinely remorseful, on his knees for forgiveness, and still his mother stayed quiet. 

 

“The Gods in their infinite wisdom have sought it fit to have two of my sons who reached manhood called to the grave before I,” she said, swiping at her eyes. “And they’ve taken twice as many at the cradle.”

 

She paused, seemed to consider her decision carefully. 

 

“Gods forgive me, but I don’t think I can bear losing another.” 

 

viii. 

 

The sun was shining the day Ned left Middleham a week after he arrived. 

 

Those days were pleasant, peaceful, worked to soothe the distance between the family Everyone seemed happy to see the brothers reunited — except Queen Elizabeth, who had taken to eyeing Richard with intense suspicion whenever Ned was not looking. 

 

It seemed _he_ was now the untrustworthy brother, now that George was gone. 

 

Or maybe he’d always been an outside in her eyes, and since George was dead she could focus all her coldness on the one brother and not have it split into two. 

 

But Hastings had approached him — having come with Ned, of course. It seemed that their strong friendship had not ceased and was as unbreakable as ever — near the end of their stay, and voiced his thanks that the brothers had reconciled. 

 

“He needs you,” Hastings had told him quietly. “You ground him. You’re one of the only people who is not afraid to tell him the truth.” 

 

Richard had looked at him curiously. His brother’s friend both indulged and encouraged Ned’s extravagance and debauchery, and it had begun to show in his features as well. It struck Richard as odd, that a man so devoted to Troy would be so willing to advocate for the King to weaken his health so. But he trusted Hastings to do right by Ned — if there was one place they could find common ground besides their love for Troy, it was their love for Ned. 

 

“You’ll come to the city soon, won’t you Uncle Richard?” Bess asked. Her blue eyes glinted happily as she gazed up at him, a full smile on her lips. 

 

Richard laughed at his eldest niece. While it may have been posed as a question, her tone made it seem more like a demand. 

 

“Whatever the Princess wishes,” he jested, causing all the children to giggle. “I will be in the city soon enough, I swear it.” 

 

“Good,” Ned’s son said. 

 

He leaned over and ruffled the boy’s hair playfully, chuckled as the boy squirmed away from him. It pleased him, deep down in his heart, to have his brother’s children like him so. 

 

_Except the King-to-be._

 

The children were quickly spirited away by one of their nurses, who lead them to the litter where the Queen was already waiting, once again having sighted her pregnancy as a means to excuse herself from their presence. 

 

“Richard!” Ned impulsively leaned forward and wrapped him in a tight embrace. Even with his growing fatness, his brother’s strength was immense, and Richard found himself struggling to breathe. 

 

“Ned, I can’t breathe,” he murmured. 

 

His brother pulled away with a laugh. 

 

“Take care of yourself, brother mine,” Ned told him. 

 

“Is that a command?” Richard grinned. And then they laughed, for that was what brothers did. 

 

Richard watched as Ned moved away, observed as his brother swung onto his white stallion with the same ease he had in his younger, more healthier years, and in that moment he could barely recall having worried for his brother’s health. The worries in his heart of the heir to the throne being a stranger to him raised by Woodville’s dissipated and faded to the very last of his subconscious. 

 

For Ned was alive — Gods be good, he had not yet reached forty. He had so many years of his life left. He would know fifty and sixty — would hold his grandchildren in his long arms and cuddle them close. Ned would rule for many years yet, and as Richard looked upon his brother’s golden head, not yet touched by grey, he had no reason to doubt that this was true. 

 

ix. 

 

Eight years after the war with Lancaster ended, Richard found himself in a kennel. It was his son’s eighth birthday in a fortnight, and he planned to surprise him with two newborn pups. Anne was delighted with his idea, and so she joined him in his venture while their son was at his lessons with his cousin Maggie, who shared the same tutors with him since they were close in age. 

 

“That one!” Anne pointed at a pup with brown fur streaked with white patches. The kennel master gently placed the pup in her awaiting arms, and she cradled it to her chest. 

 

“Careful, my love,” Richard grinned. “You may end up stealing part of our son’s nameday gift.” 

 

Almost as if on purpose, the pup squealed loudly. 

 

Anne shot him a glare as she petted it, tried to soothe its sudden disturbance with her touch. 

 

“Look at what you did!” she hissed at him. 

 

Gods damn him, Richard cackled loudly at the expression on her face. Anne handed the pup to the kennel master without another word and once her hands were free she nudged her elbow into his shoulder. 

 

“Serves you right,” she murmured, when he pouted at her. 

 

“Come my love,” he said entreatingly. Richard gestured at the pups, who were now all looking at them with their wide, innocent eyes. “I dare say we might end up adopting the whole lot.” 

 

Anne was the one who laughed now, and she was about to say something when she caught sight of someone at the door, and the happiness on her face vanished. Richard turned around to search the cause for her sudden distress, and found Francis standing in the doorway beside a young man. 

 

He vaguely remembered him from the city, knew for certain he was apart of Hastings’s household. 

 

_Why in Zeus’s name would Hastings send his courier when Ned always sent his own? And why did his courier look as though he had ridden none stop until he arrived? Covered in dirt and exhaustion as he is._

 

Richard felt his heartbeat falter as dread grew in his stomach. 

 

_Ned must be ill,_ he thought. _It must be rather serious for Hastings to urge me to come to court._

 

Instantly resigned to the summon, he was about to order the kennel master to tell the stableboy’s to ready his horse when he caught the look on Francis’s face. It was one of sympathy, of great reluctance — Francis knew these words would cause him a great deal of pain and grief. It was the look of death. Richard imagined it was the same expression on his face when he told Anne Isabel had died. 

 

“My lord,” Hastings’s courier stammered, his face pale. Fear lingered in his youthful eyes. 

 

“No,” Richard said, shaking his head, unable — _unwilling_ to believe it. “No.” 

 

Francis stepped forward, his expression grave. 

 

“Dickon,” he said gently, before his whole world was torn to millions of pieces. 

 

“Your brother is dead.” 

 

— 

 

Ned had died a fortnight ago from a sudden illness. The week before his death, he had suffered from a small cold — sniffles, headaches, an aching throat — but had seemed to recover quickly, so none thought anything of it. It was a cold, the physicians said. Nothing more. Nothing to worry about. 

 

They were wrong. 

 

Ned’s illness had spread to his lungs, so he was soon coughing up blood and bile, and he would be attacked suddenly by great stomach convulsions. 

 

He had lasted a mere two days against the illness before he succumbed. 

 

“He named you regent until his son comes of age, my lord,” the courier told him, nervous in light of his continuing silence. 

 

Richard continued to stare at him blankly. 

 

The courier flushed, stammered, and looked even more at a loss. 

 

“Did Hastings send something with you?” Anne asked, jumping to the poor boy’s rescue. 

 

“Yes!” he exclaimed, perhaps too excitedly under the circumstances. 

 

His hands shook as he reached into his pouch and withdrew a sealed letter. The courier hesitantly offered it to Richard, who took it without a word. Richard ripped open the seal and braced himself for what he would find. 

 

_Dear Richard,_

 

_You must come at once to the city. Ned is dead, and the Woodville Queen has already started to force her kin on the council. He named you regent until his son Prince Edward comes of age, but if she has it her way you won’t last long. She pretended to send a courier to tell you of Ned’s death — I only found out three days ago that she did not. Hurry, Gods damn you — hurry. The Prince has already been sent for. If you move fast enough, you may be able to intercept him and Anthony Woodville on the road. May the Gods be with you._

 

_Hastings_

 

“Richard?” Anne questioned softly. One of her hands caressed his neck, tried to will away the tension. “What is it?” 

 

Richard did not hear her. 

 

“That bitch,” he said slowly, rage roared in his heart. 

 

Anne withdrew her hands in surprise. 

 

He glanced at her, uncomprehending of anything but the fury building inside him. 

 

“She didn’t write to tell me my brother died before his body was cold.” 

 

“Dickon,” Francis murmured. He gave the courier a meaningful glance, watched cooly as the boy left the room hurriedly. “What are you going to do?” 

 

“I must ride at once,” Richard replied. He stood abruptly, began to pace back and forth. “It is the only chance I will have to meet Anthony and the boy on the road — I am regent, per by brother’s wish. I will not have him crowned without my being there.” 

 

“You can not go alone,” Francis said, horrified at the prospect. 

 

“I will take what guards I can.” 

 

“That’s only around fifty or so — hundred, if we are fast enough. It makes little sense Dickon, and you know it.” 

 

“What do you suggest I do?” Richard snapped, far harsher than he ever had before at Francis. 

 

His friend did not seem offended by his tone, but Francis faltered nonetheless. All of the possible allies Richard had were in the city — Rob was there, Brackenbury, Jack Howard. All of them. He had no option except to leave with what little men he had — 

 

“What’s that noise?” Richard inquired, his ears perked up. 

 

Anne rose from her seat as well, linked her hand in his. 

 

“I don’t know,” she answered, frowning. 

 

There were the sounds of horses and men coming through the gates — almost like an army. 

 

“Shit,” Richard swore. The three of them hurried out of the room, made their way to the front courtyard with haste. 

 

“Do you think it Anthony?” Francis questioned. 

 

“No — why would they come here?” 

 

He paused. 

 

“Why would anyone?” 

 

When they arrived at the courtyard, Richard saw his men gathering around the sudden invaders with their weapons at the ready. His steward was conversing urgently with a man Richard did not recognise from behind. It was not Anthony for sure, and Richard did not see the royal standard anywhere, but the man was noble; he could tell from the fine clothes he was wearing. 

 

“What is the meaning of this?” Richard demanded. 

 

The man whirled around to meet him, his expression apologetic. It took Richard several moments to recognise who he was. He had seen him around court several times, but never conversed with him. 

 

“Harry,” he breathed, blinking rapidly at the sight of his cousin. 

 

Ned had disliked Harry greatly — in the first month of Richard’s sudden return to the royal family, Ned had pointed out Harry from his balcony and told Richard _Harry was a little shit who felt entitled to the world._ Richard had accepted his brother’s judgement without question, and steadily ignored his cousin, who seemingly disappeared into the background over the past thirteen years. 

 

Harry was a handsome man; he had light blonde hair that fell to his chin in waves, matched with thin, light brows that seemed perpetually perfectly shaped and even, dark brown eyes that were now wide with sympathy and reverence. 

 

“My lord,” his cousin uttered, falling to his knees. “I came as soon as I was able.” 

 

Richard exchanged a surprised look with Anne. 

 

“Rise, cousin,” Richard said, careful to keep his voice even. He was in no mood for dramatics — this was all a mere hindrance to him. He needed to get on the road — fast. “Why are you here?” 

 

His cousin rose quickly, his eyes wide like an innocent doe. 

 

“I heard that the dowager Queen had already sent for the Prince before you were even brought to the city and recognised as Regent per your brother’s request.” Harry paused, looked down at his feet. 

 

“I swore to all the Gods, upon my very life, that I would see you recognised as Regent, as your brother asked of us all,” Harry continued. He lifted his eyes, met Richard’s gaze without hesitation or reserve. “I have no intention of breaking that vow.” 

 

Harry gestured around him. 

 

“I have brought you two hundred soldiers. I hope that will suffice when we meet with Anthony and Prince Edward.”  

 

Richard did not hesitate or think to question his cousin’s sincerity — he saw help, a light shining through the darkness, and he reached for it without a second thought. 

 

“I must summon my men,” he said, shooting his steward a look, who instantly went off to do as he was bid. “I will prepare myself for the ride.” His cousin nodded obediently. 

 

Richard moved back towards the stairs before he paused. 

 

“Thank you, Harry,” he told his cousin genuinely. He was surprisingly touched by this sudden show of loyalty by a man he barely knew. He looked once more into his cousin’s eyes, found no lies in them and was — rather foolishly and naively — assured that all would be alright. “I won’t forget this.” 

 

x. 

 

“Richard — you barely know him, how can you trust him —“ 

 

“I don’t, Anne —“ 

 

“Well then why are you leaving so soon with him!” she cried. “My love, you only found out your brother died _hours_ ago. Take some time, rest, grieve —“ 

 

“I can’t,” he interrupted firmly. He could not stop and think of Ned — if he did, the ache in his heart would surely overwhelm him. “I must go — now.” 

 

Anne sighed and moved to him, cupped his face in her hands. 

 

“I love you,” she told him. “Please don’t die. Be careful, and call for me and your son when the time is right.” 

 

Richard pressed a gentle kiss to her hands. 

 

“I love you,” he replied. “Give my love to Ned.” 

 

Their boy was still in his lessons — he must have noticed the commotion, was probably frightened. He longed to go to him, to reassure him and ease his fears as he held him close. Richard desired so strongly to return to the morning, where he and Anne had been picking out pups for his son’s nameday, before his world had been torn asunder. 

 

But he could not. 

 

He cast Anne one last glance before he reached the door. 

 

She was already looking at him, tears swimming in her dark orbs. She looked beautiful even then, as grief and stress morphed themselves on her fine features. 

 

He hoped he would see her again. 

 

And with that, he forced himself out the door, hoping with all his heart they would reach them before Anthony and the Prince reached Troy. 

 

— 

 

They did. 

 

Thank the Gods, they did. 

 

It took two days of hard riding through the countryside to reach Prince Edward’s royal escort, but they did. Richard knew he was pushing the men and horses too harshly — his own body ached and bruised from how hard they rode. Gods, they covered distance in two days that would normally take four to five days. 

 

They were only a day’s ride from the city. 

 

Richard cared not for the appearance of his clothes, but took care to wash his dirt-crusted face before he approached Anthony and Prince Edward. He would not have anyone say he looked unseemly or dangerous, or unfit to be regent because of his appearance. 

 

It shocked his heart when he laid eyes on the Prince. 

 

He had not seen him since he was a babe and was surprised by how the child looked so similar to Ned. They had the same eyes, hair — the colouring was identical. But through his reverie and sudden pang of grief, he did not notice the sullen expression on the boy’s face. He may have had his father’s features, but he did not have his expressions. 

 

Still, Richard kneeled before him, cast his head down. 

 

“My King,” he said, his throat tight with emotion. 

 

“My lord Uncle,” the boy replied, his voice surprisingly deep for someone as young as he. 

 

He did not tell him to rise. 

 

Slowly, Richard lifted his head, glanced furtively at Anthony Woodville out of the corner of his eye. The man did not seem glad to see him. 

 

“Prince Edward,” he said, directing his full attention towards his brother’s eldest son. “Your Father appointed me Regent of Troy until you come of age. I did not ask or expect such an honour from my brother, and I swear by all the Gods to make myself worthy of such a display of trust.” 

 

The boy seemed impressed despite himself. 

 

“Thank you, Uncle,” he said quietly. He shot Anthony a searching look, seemed eager to confirm what he said was indeed right. 

 

His Woodville Uncle did not glance at him, instead continued to stare intensely at Richard. 

 

“You have yet to swear to see Prince Edward put on the crown, as late King Edward made all of his councilmen swear,” is all he said. 

 

Richard took the rebuke without flinching. 

 

Without taking his faze off Anthony, he unsheathed his sword and placed it by the Prince’s feet. 

 

“Your grace, I swear by all the Gods I will see you crowned. I swear by all the known Gods, upon a violent and painful death that I will obey, and serve you until you command otherwise.” 

 

And he meant it. 

 

By Gods, he meant it. 

 

Anthony Woodville nodded grudgingly, before he directed his gaze to Richard’s men. He was sure Francis would follow his head — as would Harry — and the tension in his body lessened considerably when he heard his men kneel before the Prince. They did not utter the same vow he did, but they did not have to. 

 

“You may rise, my lord Uncle,” the Prince said finally. 

 

And then — 

 

“I do hope you prove worthy of the trust my father placed in you.” 

 

(They arrived in the city the following day, and the crowds that gathered in the streets were plentiful, full of curious faces. They shouted blessings at the Prince, who seemed unnerved by the largeness of the crowds, by the sheer noise they made at the sight of their new King. 

 

Richard paid it no heed. 

 

Usually, the next-in-line was sent away until he came of age at sixteen, and then he would return to the city. Troy had never had a child King before — the one time they came close the King had the good mind to send for him, knowing he was ill. Ned did not have the chance, his sickness was so sudden. No one had anticipated it. 

 

But as Richard looked at the crowd, his heart lightened. The sun even peaked through the clouds, cast them all in golden light, and he took that as a sign from the Gods that all would be well, and that his fears were for not. The boy was close to Anthony, that was true, but he was so young, who was to say he could not earn some affection with the boy? 

 

Anthony seemed to want to co-operate and ensure his nephew’s coronation went as smoothly as possible, and Richard took strength from that. He looked at Francis, close to his side as always, found his friend grinning at him with relief. Richard couldn’t help but smile back, and he was so sure, so _fucking_ sure that all would be well.) 

 

xi. 

 

But of course, nothing in Richard’s life could ever be simple or smooth. 

 

No. 

 

The sight of him, Anthony and the Prince seemed to ease the sudden tension and discord amongst the council. Even Hastings cracked a relieved smile at the sight of him. Richard was soon swarmed by Rob Percy, Robert Brackenbury, Jack Howard amongst others, and he accepted their condolences with good grace. They all seemed surprised by the sight of Harry by his side, but few questioned it outrightt; if anything, they all seemed thankful he came to Richard’s aid when they could not. 

 

It did not escape Richard’s notice that the Queen was nowhere to be found, but he could dwell on it little because the Prince needed to be escorted to the Prince’s quarters, where the next-in-line lived in until their coronation. It was a small tower, meant to bring the Prince closer to the Gods in order to seek out their guidance and wisdom. 

 

Prince Edward was escorted there with haste, with both his and Anthony’s guards posted outside his door. 

 

And then there were things to be done. 

 

Richard barely had time to order his things to be put in his chambers before he was whisked off to the council chambers. 

 

There were petitions and letters and questions — 

 

Gods, there was so much to do, and he was not yet recognised as Regent by all of the council, at least not formally and he was so tired, Gods, Ned was dead and Anne was at Middleham and he was here, surrounded by men he trusted not at all like the Stanley’s and Anthony, and men he trusted only because of their shared love for Ned and mutual dislike for the Woodville’s, like Hastings. 

 

“Prince Edward shall be crowned within the week —“ 

 

“What?” Richard questioned incredulously. He knew the boy needed to be crowned, Gods, he _wanted_ him to be crowned. But a week was too soon — impossible! 

 

He looked searchingly at all the councilmen — Thomas and Will Stanley, Hastings, Jack Howard, Anthony, Harry, amongst others. 

 

“Who decided on such a date?” 

 

“The Queen,” Thomas Stanley replied slowly. 

 

“Oh.” 

 

He paused, took a moment to gather his thoughts. Harry shifted, shot him a meaningful look when their gazes met. _The Queen will try to have the boy crowned before you can cement your role as Regent, Richard,_ he had told him the first night of their mad dash to meet the royal party. _She will try and snatch the Regency under your nose, convince the boy you mean to harm him and have you thrown in a dungeon._

 

At once, Richard’s back stiffened. 

 

“That date is too soon,” he said. “We shall postpone the Prince’s coronation —“ 

 

“What for?” Anthony interrupted. His eyes flashed dangerously as he looked at Richard. 

 

“What for?” Richard repeated. “A week is far too soon to properly plan a coronation — we need to ensure that the ceremony is grand. The most memorable coronation to ever be seen in Troy.” He stopped, noticed a lot of the councilmen seemed wary, ready to protest the delay. 

 

“My brother was perhaps the most loved King Troy has ever seen,” he added. “His son’s coronation will need to be so grand the grief of his loss will be forgotten, and their love and awe for the new King renewed. We will not accomplish that with some thrown-together, sloppy ceremony. Prince Edward has scarcely been in the city since he was a babe, my lords. I suggest we give him some time to grow used to his surroundings, familiarise himself with the people.” 

 

He stared directly into Anthony’s eyes. 

 

“Do you not think that more prudent?” he questioned. 

 

Anthony nodded, albeit reluctantly. 

 

“Very well,” he said. 

 

The other councilmen murmured their approval, and Richard leaned back in his chair, relieved by his win. 

 

— 

 

As it turned out, the Queen did not agree. 

 

Once word broke out that the coronation was to be postponed a few days later, she fled to the Great Temple with the remainder of her children and sought sanctuary. 

 

With that, any semblance of normality or stability Richard’s presence provided crumbled to pieces. She may as well have gone screaming about the streets that she thought he was dangerous and murderous. 

 

Richard had been dining with his mother when he heard. 

 

They had been reading the letter Meg sent them from Cilicia, reminiscing over Ned’s memory when Francis and Harry burst through the door looking panicked. 

 

“Queen Elizabeth has fled to the temple with the rest of her children and claimed Sanctuary,” Harry told him hurriedly, before Francis had the chance to open his mouth. 

 

The string of curses that left Richard’s mouth would have earned him his mother’s wrath if it had been any other time. 

 

“Where is Anthony?” he asked, still stunned. 

 

“He and one of Elizabeth’s Grey son’s are gathering men as we speak,” Francis cut in. “We know not what they plan —“ 

 

Richard was already up and out of his seat, heading for the door. They were right at his heels, and it surprised Richard little when they found Hastings and Jack Howard around the next corner, already making their way to his chambers. 

 

“Where are they?” 

 

“They’ve gathered around fifty men and are heading to the tower —“ 

 

“Gods damn them all!” Richard exclaimed, quickening his strides. “How many men do we have?” 

 

Francis was the one who spoke — the only one who seemed not to struggle to keep up with his fast pace. 

 

“Rob, Brackenbury and Dick Ratcliffe have gathered your men, they said they will move to the tower at once —“ 

 

“I shall send for my mine as well!” Harry interrupted. 

 

“No time,” Richard replied curtly. “They may have already snatched Prince Edward away to the Temple by now.” 

 

_Anne,_ he thought. _Ned._

 

Rob and Brackenbury had already arrived in time to prevent Anthony and Richard Grey (the youngest son of Elizabeth Woodville from her first marriage) from entering the tower when they reached the scene. Richard could see the tension in Rob’s face as he spoke, saw the barely concealed aggression on the two groups of guards, who were already reaching for their swords. 

 

“I demand to be let pass!” Anthony exclaimed loudly. 

 

“I am afraid I can not allow that,” Rob replied stubbornly. “Per Prince Richard, the regent of Troy’s, orders.” 

 

“I am Prince Edward’s guardian and you _will_ let me pass!” 

 

“No, he will not,” Richard said calmly. 

 

At once, the guards parted and allowed them to walk past. Richard settled himself beside Rob, gently placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder in thanks for his loyalty. He turned abruptly to scrutinize Anthony, saw the man pale slightly. 

 

“Why did you have to do this?” Richard asked, loud enough so only they could hear. _Why did you have have to make this so hard?_

 

“Let us crown him Richard,” Anthony said. “Let us do it now, and be done with it.” 

 

For a split second, Richard was tempted to agree. They could all go and have the boy crowned privately in front of witnesses, to appease his mother and other Woodville kin. This conflict could be resolved with a mere nod of his head. But then he thought of what would come after that — he remembered the cold, critical expression Queen Elizabeth used whenever she looked at him. Once the boy was crowned, she could give him a swift nod and Richard would be thrown in a dungeon without a second thought. 

 

His mind flashed to Anne and their Ned back at Middleham. She should have received his letter by now; he had sent it the instant he had been allowed to go to his chambers the first day they reached the city. She would be on her way, without Ned (he didn’t want his son here yet) and if he was thrown in a cell, no one would have the chance to warn her — or his son. 

 

His heart grew cold at the thought, pierced and overcome with fear and protectiveness. 

 

“No,” he said finally. His eyes flickered to the guards flanking Anthony, and Richard noticed with cold satisfaction that he had fewer than Anthony did. 

 

“Arrest Lord Anthony and Richard Grey,” he commanded. “Take them to a cell.” 

 

“Richard, please!” 

 

He shook his head at Anthony. 

 

“I didn’t want this,” he said. “You forced my hand.” 

 

They struggled, loudly and viciously, and Richard realised that Prince Edward heard his uncle and half-brother’s cries. He did not need to imagine what his reaction would be, and his heart sank even further in his chest, seemed to disappear entirely. 

 

(When Anne arrived in the city nigh on six days later, he hugged her close and buried his face in her neck. 

 

_I’ll do anything to keep you safe,_ he thought. _Anything._ ) 

 

xii.

 

A fragile, tentative peace slowly grew after Anthony’s arrest. 

 

Most of the court seemed wary of Richard, frightened by what he would do next. Everything had happened so suddenly he could not truly blame them. Gone were the days of his brother’s reign, and in its place chaos and disorder had taken root. 

 

Richard hated the throne room more than anything in the world; hated the constant eyes on him, the way people would look on him and then the throne. It was an accusation in and of itself; an accusation Richard was growing less and less willing to let slide. 

 

_I don’t want the crown,_ he wished to yell at them all. 

 

The council was divided, either side were still reeling by the rapid turn of events. As the days passed, it seemed less and less likely that the Prince would be crowned on the agreed upon date, but Richard had little desire at all to address their concerns. 

 

He spent all hours of the day working and worrying — replying to letters and complaints, planning the coronation, listening to councillors and farmers and merchants as they rambled on and on. Richard wished to speak to Anne about it all, but whenever he found the time to return to his chambers he was so tired he would quickly fall asleep after pressing a quick kiss to her mouth. 

 

His routine was monotonous and weary, until Harry one day came into the council room with Priest Stillington on his heels. Richard was the only one there — he was preparing for the upcoming meeting the following day, writing down notes and arguments. 

 

He raised his eyebrows in surprise at the eager look on Harry’s face, his heart squeezed uncomfortably at the look of trepidation on Stillington’s. 

 

_Gods,_ he thought. _The last thing I need is the rambling of a Priest._

 

He opened his mouth to speak but Harry cut in, already knowing what he was about to say. 

 

“Richard,” he said gently. “Trust me when I say you will be very interested to see what this man has to say.”

 

Harry glanced back at the Priest, offered him an encouraging smile. 

 

“Speak as freely with him as you did with me, my friend,” he said, clapping the old man on the shoulder. “I shall leave you both to talk without reserve.” 

 

Harry left before Richard could even summon a reply. Resigned, Richard leaned back in his chair and appraised the old man. In truth, he had never heard of Stillington before he had been appointed by Ned as head Priest, but he had never cast the man much thought. He always seemed quiet, eager to disappear into the background, almost as if he wanted Ned to forget his existence. 

 

“How may I help you?” Richard asked. 

 

The Priest paused, seemed eager to ensure his words were worded properly. 

 

“My lord, I —“ he stammered, fear getting the better of him. “My Lord, I have something to tell you regarding the late King Edward and his marriage to Queen Elizabeth.” 

 

Intrigued, Richard raised his eyebrows. 

 

“What of it?” he inquired. 

 

_Gods Ned, what have you done now?_

 

His brother grinned in his mind, his laughter echoed in his ears. 

 

“Their marriage was not legitimate.” 

 

Richard jerked back as though he had been burned. The man had spoken so quickly his words were an incoherent blur. Richard paused, his grey eyes narrowed sternly as he stared at Stillington. _I must have heard wrong,_ he thought. _Surely I did._

 

“What did you just say?” he asked coldly. 

 

The elder man flinched at his tone, looked beyond frightened. 

 

“I’m saying that the late King Edward already had a Queen when he married and crowned Elizabeth Woodville.” 

 

Richard blinked. 

 

“Lies!” he spat suddenly. “You’re lying. My brother would never —“ he shook his head frantically. “My brother would never lie about that — such a lie is clearly impossible!” 

 

But even as the words left his mouth, he knew it wasn’t true. Ned had loved women — had loved women who put up a challenge on his advances. If he wanted a woman enough, he was known to promise them outlandish, grand things in order to get them into his bed. 

 

After all, is that not what he did with Elizabeth Woodville? 

 

Richard shook his head, angry with himself for finding logic in such petty gossip and slander. 

 

“My brother sacrificed a great deal to ensure Queen Elizabeth was accepted and established as Queen,” he continued. His mind flashed to the war with Warwick — the battles, the fights, the tension, their short time in exile. “And you mean to tell me that he had one already? And who was this woman?” 

 

Priest Stillington looked down at his hands. 

 

“Eleanor Butler,” he said finally, his gaze lowered to the ground. 

 

Richard opened his mouth, closed it just as fast. He scoured through his mind for Eleanor Butler — tried to remember a woman of the name. He could not. 

 

“Who in Zeus’s name is Eleanor Butler?” he inquired incredulously. 

 

“She was a novice of Apollo,” he murmured. “Our late King Edward met her when the first war with Lancaster started. He wed her secretly, crowned her as well apparently and swore to bring her to court — but then your father and brother were killed and. . .” 

 

“He simply forgot about his wife?” Richard demanded. “My brother was many things, but he would not have been so cruel as that. He would not have.” Of that he was sure. 

 

“I married them. I was a witness to Edward’s vow to make her his Queen — I made her his Queen. And then the war happened and Eleanor waited for him to summon her. She waited for two years, my lord.” 

 

Richard shook his head once more. 

 

“No,” he protested softly, unwilling to believe it. “And where is this Eleanor Butler now?” 

 

The Priest winced and closed his eyes, as though he were suddenly struck by a powerful blow to the back of the head. 

 

“Dead,” he said quietly. “After King Edward declared Elizabeth Woodville to be his wife and Queen, Eleanor took a vow of silence and fled to Cilicia, where she apparently became a Priestess of Apollo. She died four years ago.” 

 

“Dear Gods,” Richard gasped, and ran a hand through his hair. He shut his eyes, thought hard of his brother — of the brother he thought he knew so well. 

 

“George found out,” Stillington murmured. 

 

Richard’s head snapped up so fast his neck creaked loudly. 

 

“What?” 

 

“The late Prince George heard a rumour of Edward having performed a marriage ceremony several years ago with some upcoming priestess. I’m not quite sure as to your brother’s intent with such knowledge, but he found somehow managed to find out about me and asked me questions about the King’s relationship with Eleanor. May the Gods forgive me, I blundered in my answers and went straight to the King, not knowing what he would do.” 

 

Richard felt his heart grow still. He remembered his brother’s face throughout George’s arrest and eventual execution. Recalled how stubborn and cold he was — how he forbade any of them from visiting George in his final days. How he killed his own brother. 

 

_Can’t you trust that I felt like I had to do it? That if I didn’t, the whole of Troy would be in peril?_

 

Ned’s words echoed in his head, haunted him like a ghost. 

 

“That’s why he made you the head priest,” Richard muttered dazedly. 

 

He saw Stillington nod from the corner of his eye but Gods, Richard knew not what else to say. He felt sick to his stomach, felt like he could collapse at any moment. 

 

“What proof do you have that what you say is true?” he asked finally. 

 

Richard would not believe it — he _could not_ believe it. For if what he said was true that would mean Richard was the rightful heir to Troy. Stillington reached for something in the small sack he carried, and Richard felt his heart shift as Stillington produced a small crown. It was thin and golden, with a purple pendant hanging from the front, so that it would rest on the wearer’s forehead. 

 

“What is that?” he demanded. “That means nothing to me.” 

 

The Priest looked rather uncomfortable as he glanced down at the object in his hands. 

 

“When Eleanor left the city, she gave me this. She said that Ned told her it belonged to his lady mother — it was the crown he gave her to use during the ceremony.” 

 

“My mother’s,” Richard repeated dully. 

 

Stillingen nodded meekly. 

 

Richard stared intently at the crown in the old man’s hands. If what he said were true — which it was not — life as he knew it would crumble into pieces. But despite Richard’s adamant refusals of the priest’s claims, fear circled in his stomach, made his heart twist and turn in his chest. It was this fear that made him reluctant to summon his mother — to move or breathe or think. 

 

“My lord?” Priest Stillington moved forth, before he stopped still stricken. “Should I call for the guards to bring your lady mother?” 

 

Richard lifted his eyes to the man’s face. He observed him with an intensity so strong the man flushed; his eyes were wide, full of worry and panic and traces of fear. Stillington did not look like a liar. With a lump in his throat, Richard nodded mutely. 

 

The time it took for his mother to arrive felt like centuries. His heart was hammering away in his chest, nausea made his forehead trickle with sweat. 

 

_It’s not true,_ he told himself — assured himself. _This man is mistaken._

 

So then why did his hands feel so damp and sweaty in his lap? Why was he suddenly so fearful? Why in Zeus’s name did he wish for his mother to never come to that room? 

 

He stared at the floor, so lost to his thoughts he did not even notice that the door opened. Richard heard the footsteps, but merely sat there, unmoving. The world came to a slow as he lifted his head and glanced at Stillington, who was holding the crown in his hands. 

 

His hands were trembling, Richard noticed. He looked down at his own hands, noticed the same thing. 

 

His mother glanced at Stillington, her gaze darted down to the object in his hands. 

 

“I lost that crown years ago!” she exclaimed. “Why, I thought I’d never find it! I gave it to Ned as a present for his future Queen of course, but he claimed to have lost it. . .” 

 

Richard heard no more — the gasp that escaped his lips silenced his mother instantly, made her expression of surprise give way to concern. 

 

“Richard? Richard what is it?” 

 

But Richard couldn’t hear — he could not. 

 

_No no no,_ he thought. _No. It can’t be. Please, Gods, no._

 

“Anne,” he murmured dazedly. “I need to speak with Anne.” 

 

He rose to his feet clumsily, swayed under the weight of the revelation. 

 

“Richard, what’s ailing you?” 

 

Cecily appeared at his side, her face white. 

 

“No,” he murmured, shaking his head. “Gods damn you Ned. No.” 

 

Cecily glanced back at the Priest, watched him with narrow eyes. 

 

“What did my son do?” she questioned shrewdly. 

 

There was no need to clarify which son she was speaking of. 

 

Stillington glanced at Richard, searched for his approval, but soon found Richard was too nauseous with shock to care. 

 

“Stop staring at my son and answer me,” Cecily demanded. 

 

The Priest hesitated no longer. He explained bluntly what Ned had done all those years ago to Nell Butler, carefully outlined how that meant Queen Elizabeth was no true Queen since he crown had already been given to another. 

 

Through his revery, Richard could hear his mother’s breath hitch when she heard George died because he discovered Ned’s secret. 

 

“The things we do for our children,” she muttered, low enough so only he could hear. 

 

Richard’s mind flashed to his own child. Ned. By Gods, he was eight already. Eight and full of mischief and curiosity. He looked like Richard, inherited his dark locks and grey eyes. But his smile was Anne’s; kind, warm and infectious. He had her grace — he had all of Anne’s good. 

 

If Richard were to remain as Protector for the King, he would most likely die. He may have started late, but Richard was taught his history. Most men who ended up as Protector’s for a King died — were executed on the orders of that same King they worked so hard for, or overthrown in some other manner. His stomach churned as he thought of Anthony Woodville in a cell and Elizabeth in sanctuary. 

 

Young King Edward had been taught — Gods, he had been raised by Anthony. He would never trust Richard. It was too late for that. And when he eventually came to the throne, he would exact revenge on the man he thought had wronged him, had tried to poison his mind against the man who raised him. 

 

_All I wanted was to preserve Ned’s wishes. I vowed to serve his son. I swore by all the Gods I would._

 

“I must see Anne,” he said hurriedly. 

 

His mother stayed silent. 

 

“I’m sorry, Mother,” he told her. And he was truly sorry. She had just discovered Ned had executed George for discovering one of his many sins — the lie he had constructed for himself to live in. But now was not the time to discuss such things. He _could not_ speak of Ned’s actions. 

 

Richard pressed a kiss to her cold cheek and left without another word. 

 

— 

 

Anne grew into herself when he told her. 

 

All the concern melted from her face as her features began to harden and cloud over. His heart trembled in his chest as he forced the words to leave his mouth. 

 

“Good Gods,” she muttered, once he had finally finished. “Are you certain of this, Richard? Are you absolutely sure?” 

 

“I don’t know,” he confessed. His eyes lowered to the ground. “The evidence is there — by Zeus, the evidence is overwhelming. But I can’t believe Ned would do such a thing — he cost Troy a great deal when he married Elizabeth Woodville. If this is true, then I fear I did not know my brother at all.” 

 

He waited for Anne to say something — anything at all. 

 

Richard did not have to wait long. 

 

“Richard,” she began slowly. “I know you loved your brother, but you met him after he lost your father and Edmund. He was a different man then, I’m sure. The fact that lust drove him to impulsiveness is no true surprise.” 

 

He felt his lips part in protest, but he quickly shut them. She was right and he knew it. 

 

“We could ignore it,” he said thickly. “He is still my brother’s son — legitimacy be damned. I could fulfil my vow and let him be crowned.” 

 

Richard heard her inhale sharply. 

 

“You can’t,” she said. “Can you?” 

 

He did not look at her. 

 

“Oh Gods,” she cried. “You can’t because if he’s crowned then he’ll have you killed! He’s a Woodville — your brother saw to that. If he is crowned, you’re as sure as dead.” 

 

There was a pause. 

 

“And Ned! By Gods Richard you mustn’t let him be crowned — you mustn’t! If you die, Ned will be — Gods, I can not even think of it.” 

 

“I know that,” he snapped. Anger surged in his veins, made his head snap up to meet her gaze. “I know my history, Anne. I know what happens to men who become regents to young Kings — especially King’s that don’t trust the regent assigned to them. I _know_ what will happen to Ned and to you if I let my brother’s son be crowned. I know that — and yet, I swore I would do so.” 

 

“When you thought he had the right!” Anne exclaimed. “Dickon, I know this is hard and I can not possibly imagine how hurt you must be from your brother’s betrayal, but if what Priest Stillington said is true — _since_ what Priest Stillington said is true, you have the right. Not Edward, not Richard, nor Bess or Cecily or any other Woodville child, _you._ ” 

 

He chuckled humourlessly. 

 

“I swore by the Gods I’d see him crowned,” he said. “I vowed — come what may, I will see him crowned.” 

 

“The Gods will understand Richard,” Anne told him. She leaned forward, held onto his hands so tight it was almost painful. “The Gods are just. They will understand why you do this. For our son’s sake, you must.” 

 

“To save our son — to save you, the two people I love most in this world, I must take my brother’s crown,” he said. Laughter escaped his lips — so bitter and dark it was that Anne’s eyes filled with tears. “Who would have thought? A shepherd turned Prince turned King!” 

 

Through his increasingly blurred vision, he could see Anne struggling with what to say. 

 

“The Gods must understand — they _do_ understand,” he said suddenly. “Surely they do.” 

 

“You are a good man, Dickon,” Anne murmured finally. “You will make an even greater King.” 

 

Sadness lingered in their hearts; if they went through with this, life as they knew it would change permanently. They would lose Middleham and the peace they found there; chaos and judgement would plague their lives in the months to follow, and they feared what that would bring. 

 

“The Gods have blessed us, my love,” Richard continued determinedly. “This must be part of their plan — they must have foreseen this when they gave the three sons of Troy another chance.” 

 

And he clung to that belief desperately, because it was the only thing that kept his emotions from overwhelming him. 

 

He would be King: for Ned, for Anne — for his own life. 

 

He hoped the Gods would forgive him for it. 

 

xiii. 

 

Francis accepted the news with stunned silence. 

 

Rob Percy and Robert Brackenbury also grew quiet and reserved. Richard wondered whether or not it was his own insecurity playing with his eyes, but he was sure there were glimmers of uncertainty in their eyes. Doubt. 

 

It made him ill, knowing that his friends most likely thought badly of him. 

 

But Richard did not dare dwell on the guilt that lingered inside him - he dared not show his doubts to his enemies. Only Harry, Anne, Stillington, his mother and his closest confidants knew the truth, and he planned to keep it that way. Elizabeth Woodville was still in sanctuary with all her children except Edward — 

 

Richard winced from where he stood on the battlements, a light breeze ruffling his hair. He did not think of his brother’s son if he could help it — could not bare to think of the promise he had once made, the promise he was now prepared to break, even if it broke his heart. 

 

_Aphrodite, guide me._

 

Richard gazed down at the city, saw two boys playing with a stray dog near a well; saw merchants exchanging gold coins in their tan hands, saw mothers soothing their babies. The memory of Ned showing him Troy from his balcony attacked him suddenly, made him wince yet again. 

 

Richard was going to be King now, Gods be good. 

 

Ned’s smile haunted the back of his eyelids. 

 

_If you stay with me, you will never regret it._

 

He could not think of his brother now — his loss was too great, the pain still too hot to truly bear. All he could think of was surviving — was dealing with the Woodvilles and the Stanleys and the boy-King and the truth and the mess his brother, his dear, darling elder brother had left him with when he died. 

 

Richard had allies on the council. He knew that. He had Jack Howard for certain — Hastings on his side as well. Richard had taken a great deal of trouble to avoid Hastings as best he could since he discovered the truth. He and Ned were so close that for a moment Richard wasn’t sure that _he_ hadn’t known before he had dismissed the idea. But Richard needed time to come to terms with the truth, a truth that many would doubt and wish him ill for. 

 

Regardless, Hastings hated the Woodvilles more than he could ever distrust Richard, so he was not concerned. Harry was the only other member on the council besides his closest friends who he could trust — and the most powerful member there, second perhaps to himself and Hastings. 

 

Richard owed Harry a great deal, and was at a loss as to his brother’s distrust for the man who had shown him nothing but loyalty, even if it was rather out of the blue. 

 

“Richard!” 

 

He jumped at the sound of his cousin’s voice, so startled he did not notice the alarm in it. 

 

“Harry, what is —“ 

 

His voice drifted off at the taunt lines stressing his cousin’s handsome features. Panic seized his heart — Anne, Ned, the Woodvilles hurt them — 

 

“Richard, there is a plot!” his cousin whispered, grabbing him tightly by the wrist. 

 

Richard felt his eyebrows fly up. “A plot?” he repeated. “By the Woodvilles? Elizabeth can barely do anything from the Temple, and the only people who have access to Anthony Woodville and Richard Grey are members on the council —“ 

 

He stopped short, felt his body grow cold. 

 

“The Stanleys?” he guessed. 

 

Harry nodded, his face grim. It was then Richard noticed Francis and Rob Percy hovering in the background, looking pale with shock. 

 

“No,” Richard said. He could not believe it — he _would not_ believe it. “No.” 

 

“He has been conversing with the Woodvilles for weeks now, Richard. It seems Stillington went to both him and Howard and —“ 

 

“No,” Richard repeated, feeling bile burn the back of his throat. “Hastings wouldn’t.” 

 

Harry drew back, let go of his wrist with such suddenness it slapped Richard’s side. 

 

“They plan on having you assassinated in your sleep, while your wife lays beside you. Hastings courier was not aware of what they plan to do with your son.” 

 

The mention of Ned and Anne made the shock fade away, made blinding rage settle in his bones. 

 

“How?” he demanded. “When?” 

 

Francis moved forward, seemed to recognise the violence in his tone. “Dickon,” he murmured lowly. “Hastings courier only managed to break away now — he was the one carrying messages from Hastings to Anthony Woodviile over the past week. It seems everyone has a reason to hate the Woodvilles.” 

 

His attempt at humour fell flat. 

 

“Except Hastings,” Richard retorted darkly. “Damn Stillington!” 

 

Richard desired nothing more than to beat his hands bloody against the wall — another betrayal, another scandal, another attempt on his life. 

 

“Gods damn them all,” he cursed, hating the world. “We must act — tonight, at the council meeting.” 

 

All three of them nodded in agreement, though none looked pleased with the notion. 

 

xiv. 

 

It was a peculiar feeling, Richard thought, standing in front of people who wished him dead, but had no idea he knew. 

 

Anger boiled in his stomach, made his jaw clench painfully. His eyes flickered from the Stanley brothers to Hastings, who drank from his cup with a calm expression, unaware of the rage boiling inside him. Harry sat by Richard’s side — Jack Howard on the other. 

 

_Damn you to the deepest parts of the underworld, Hastings,_ Richard thought darkly, his jaw jumping. 

 

“My lords,” he began, rising. The room fell quiet, the only sound Richard could hear was his heartbeat in his ears. “I am very much aggrieved.” 

 

Thomas Stanley froze at his words, and Richard could see the panic flash in his eyes. 

 

“My lord?” his brother asked confusedly. 

 

It was the sudden reminder that this man wished to kill Anne and Ned that made any calm Richard possessed fall to pieces. 

 

“Don’t act stupid,” he barked harshly. “I have become aware of a plot on my life — on that of my wife and son.” 

 

“Richard,” Hastings said slowly. “Whatever you suspect —“ 

 

“Shut your mouth!” he snapped. “I have the evidence, Hastings. Don’t try and deny it. You conspired with the Woodvilles — with the Stanleys —“ 

 

“Nonsense!” the man cried wildly. 

 

Thomas and William Stanley remained silent. 

 

“Richard, I swear to you, I never did such a thing.” 

 

Richard was unmoved. 

 

“Jack,” Hastings pleaded, looking at his old friend desperately. “You know how I loved Ned.” 

 

Howard glanced at Richard heavily, and he saw the grief in his eyes, knew that this man was losing a dearest friend. 

 

“Don’t,” Howard said thickly. “You’ve made your bed now, Hastings.” 

 

Silence. 

 

Richard looked at his brother’s dearest friend, saw the outrage in his eyes, his flushed expression. 

 

“You left me no choice, Richard,” Hastings said finally. “Ned had judged you wrong — as did I. Stillington —“ 

 

“Shut your mouth,” Richard ordered. He clapped his hands, and watched with dark satisfaction as the traitors paled when numerous guards entered the room. 

 

“You are all to be put away for high treason,” he said, his voice thick with rage. “Put Thomas and William Stanley in separate cells —“ 

 

Hastings continued his outburst — 

 

“And Harry! Good gods, man! He is evil — And you were giving everything to him! A man who your brother trusted less than a fly —“ 

 

“Enough!” 

 

Richard slammed his hands onto the wooden table, let the sound echo through the council chamber. 

 

“Escort Hastings to the courtyard,” he said to a guard. 

 

“My lord?” the man asked confusedly. 

 

“Have him beheaded in front of the people.” 

 

He straightened his back, glared at Hasting with all the anger he possessed. 

 

Richard felt Francis move closer to him in surprise. 

 

“Dickon, think of this —“ 

 

“Not now Francis,” he snapped. All he wanted to do was leave the room — his anger was so strong it would suffocate him. “Let the people see what happens to traitors.” 

 

And then he turned on his heel and stormed out of the room. 

 

— 

 

“Dickon!” 

 

Anne rushed over towards him, crashed into him so strongly he took a few steps back. 

 

“I was so worried,” she whispered. “The guards you sent — Veronique, no one would say anything — I heard horrible whispers, that you had Hastings killed —“ 

 

Richard drew away from her, looked down at the ground, unwilling for her to see him in such a state. 

 

“Dickon?” she questioned, unbelieving. 

 

He could not find it in him to respond. 

 

“Dear Zeus,” she murmured. “It’s true.”

 

“Yes,” he said finally. 

 

When he finished telling her what occurred, Anne was pale. 

 

“Hastings?” she asked, sinking down onto a nearby chair. Richard noticed faintly that her hands were trembling. “And the Woodvilles?” 

 

Richard nodded, unable to summon the strength to speak he was still so angry. 

 

“Dear Zeus,” she murmured. A lone tear slid down her cheek, made her eyes glisten. 

 

Richard, despite his extreme tiredness, managed to lift his hand to catch the tear in its tracks. 

 

“My love,” he whispered, his heart heavy in his chest. How he longed for Middleham, for Ned, for his brother. How he longed for this to never have happened. It occurred to him, suddenly, how strange it was. He took Anne from Sparta - from her Queenship, and now, against all odds, he was making her a Queen once more. 

 

Richard could have laughed at the irony, but the urge turned to ashes in his mouth. 

 

“Dickon,” Anne whispered, her hand hovering over his cheek. “We will survive this.” 

 

Richard could not bring himself to reply. 

 

“Together,” she added gently, peering into his eyes with an earnestness he could not help but respect. 

 

He sighed softly, and grabbed a hold of her hands, allowing himself to feel safe, to feel loved in her arms. But he was still so tired, so weary — and though he loathed to admit it, fearful. 

 

“Together,” he replied, and knew that no matter what came next, that would never cease to be true. 

 

xv. 

 

Anne and Richard were crowned on a hot, sunny morning. The sky was a vivid blue, the air thick with humidity and the tension of the city folk. Richard swore he could hear their whispers from his balcony — even when Richard had spent all his time in the city, he was still somewhat at a distance from them. No matter how much time passed, no matter how much love and loyalty he showed Ned or the people showed him, he never stopped being the long lost prince. He knew it was a popular story — and a rare one at that, but Richard never truly shook the feeling that there was an aura of mystery around him that the common folk had never truly gotten over. 

 

The war with Lancaster had not helped either. 

 

Regardless, when he and Anne made their way through the city with their crowns on their heads, they were met with cries of joy and declarations of love. The people were relieved they would not have a boy-King, an outsider who they barely knew. They would rather him, and Richard hated himself for the sliver of satisfaction and security he gained from that. 

 

And so, in the face of this acceptance, Richard allowed himself to smile genuinely and wave at the crowds. He and Anne played their part with surprising ease, and for the first time since he discovered the truth, Richard truly felt as though he had done the right thing by taking the crown. There was a moment when he woke, where he wondered as to how his nephews would feel — he had managed to gain a hold of his younger nephew, Richard when Elizabeth Woodville sent him to keep his elder brother company in his misery — when they heard the cries for Richard and saw the crowds gathered in the streetS. 

 

But he forgot about them, as the day passed. They were safe in the tower. He had numerous guards there — both his, Harry’s and those of his dearest friends. Neither of them would be harmed. He thought greatly of his own child, his Edward, happy and delighted as he watched his parents ride through the city from the safety of the palace. 

 

Richard could not have imagined the truth — 

 

He could not have. 

 

— 

 

“The Princes are gone.” 

 

Richard did not understand. 

 

“Gone?” he asked, uncomprehending. 

 

Robert Brackenbury flinched under his incredulous gaze. 

 

“They have vanished, my King,” his dear friend repeated. 

 

Richard gazed dully around the empty council chamber. He had been writing a letter to Meg moments before Robert Brackenbury had entered the room. He had been telling her that the ceremony had proceeded smoothly, that even without her presence his reign had started off rather nicely, with a warmer welcome than he had anticipated. 

 

“Vanished?” he repeated. 

 

Brackenbury could hardly meet his gaze. 

 

“How can two princes vanish?” 

 

Surely there was a mistake. Surely. 

 

It was not possible. 

 

He thought of his nephews, his brother’s children, and his heart dropped to his stomach. 

 

Richard managed to lift his gaze to meet his friend’s watery eyes. 

 

“I don’t know, my King,” Brackenbury said. “The guards said they woke up the day after your coronation and —“ 

 

“That was nigh on a fortnight ago!” Richard snapped. 

 

Brackenbury paled. 

 

“They were frightened, my King. They searched and searched the tower to no avail —“ 

 

_No no no please, Gods no —_

 

But the boys were gone. Richard went to the tower himself and searched for his brother’s sons, but to no avail. The boys had gone somewhere he could not reach them and the blame Richard felt - the soul crushing, life draining guilt made him collapse. 

 

He felt Francis move to his side the instant he fell to the ground. 

 

“Gods,” Richard murmured, as the truth slammed into him. 

 

“Dickon,” Francis said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. 

 

“They’re dead,” he whispered. 

 

“We don’t know that Dickon,” Francis said, but Richard _knew._ There were no bodies but he _knew_ somehow, somewhere, deep down in his bones. 

 

“What have I done?”

 

xvi. 

 

For we all know how this story goes. 

 

Another betrayal. 

 

Another life. 

 

Harry, his dear cousin Harry, who he trusted so much, is discovered to have been plotting against Richard the entire time. 

 

Richard had not been King for a year, and he had lost so much — been betrayed so much. 

 

Harry falls, and Richard still has Anne, still has his Ned and the crown on his head. 

 

“Do you think the Gods are punishing us?” Anne asks him one night, a fragile expression in her eyes. 

 

Richard turns to look at her, his beautiful wife and he, momentarily, does not know what to say. 

 

The crown lies heavy on her head, the same as it does his. It pains him greatly, to know she is an unhappy Queen once again. 

 

“My love,” Anne’s hands move to cup his cheeks. “I am not unhappy, merely. . .  tired. So very tired.” 

 

“As am I,” Richard breathes. The moonlight casts their figures in silver. “But Anne, my love, all these deaths must be for a reason. Aphrodite has blessed us — given us another chance.” 

 

“Do you truly believe that?” 

 

“I must,” he responds. “We are blessed, my love. This must all be apart of the Gods plan.” 

 

— 

 

And for a while, Richard’s words seemed to ring true. 

 

He managed to secure new alliances with Cilicia and other neighbouring cities. Richard achieved what his brother could not: peace with the mountain clans that resurged after the war with Lancaster. Troy was thriving; the harvest was successful, the fishermen’s nets full, the promise of peace with neighbouring cities. The Stanley’s and all those who had joined Hastings had resworn fealty to him — had seem to accept his rule, though he still trusted them little. 

 

Even Elizabeth Woodville finally saw reason. 

 

It took him a great while to finally go see her at the Great Temple, and though their animosity was still there lurking above the surface, she finally agreed to leave Troy with her daughters. Her once great beauty had finally begun to ebb into hard lines of war and grief, and Richard pitied her for her loss. 

 

For all of her losses, truth be told. 

 

He granted her lands and a rather considerable income to support herself and the rest of her daughters, and while it did little to appease his guilt, he hoped it would help ease their ill will, establish some peace between them. For Ned had loved her, for whatever reason. His daughters were the only thing Richard had left of his brother, the brother he had loved the most. 

 

He surprised himself by discovering that he enjoyed the company of the two daughters who came to court before their leave, who reminded him of Ned by their very looks, though it was the eldest Bess who was more like Edward then them all. 

 

And Anne liked the girls too. 

 

She was generous and kind to them, offered them small gifts of money to buy silks for dresses and jewels. 

 

The court had finally started to settle down. And they were happy. 

 

Him, Anne and their own little Ned, and George’s children, Teddy and Maggie. Even the Rivers girls, Elizabeth and Cecily. When they left court to return to the countryside with their mother for a while, they felt their absence keenly. As time passed, and Richard experienced more and more success and stability in his reign, his unease began to ebb, gave way to an even steadier faith in Aphrodite’s promise of another chance, and the belief that all would be well. 

 

And really, how could he have known? 

 

How could he? 

 

But he should have, for death always strikes when one least expects it. 

 

— 

 

It was a beautiful spring day when it happened. 

 

He and Anne were in the throne room, listening with keen awareness as some farmer voiced a grievance, pleaded for assistance against raiders when Maggie burst into the throne room, her youthful features deathly pale with fright. 

 

The expression on her face would have been enough cause for alarm, but the terror that possessed Richard at her proceeding words was so great he nearly collapsed. 

 

“He was fine,” Maggie was crying. “And then he felt hot and he lied down for awhile, and now he’s not waking up —“ 

 

Anne was already up and out of her throne, the farmer soon forgotten. Richard was not far behind her. 

 

_Ned,_ he thought. _Ned Ned Ned._

 

“Edward!” Anne cried out, when they entered their boy’s chambers to find him limp and unconscious in his bed. The physicians sprung away from their boy, moved to the back of the room as they watched their King and Queen climb onto their son’s bed. 

 

“Is there pain?” Richard demanded. “Ned, tell me, does it hurt? What can we do?” 

 

Anne grabbed a hold of their son’s right hand. It was lifeless in her grasp. With none of their boy’s usual warmth or strength. 

 

“Oh my baby Edward,” she whispered frantically. Her other hand patted his cheeks and Richard saw the glint of sweat on her hands from their son’s skin. Their boy was deathly pale, his lips a thin line of whiteness and his dark hair was sweaty and matted against his skin. 

 

_Why won’t he wake?_ Richard thought, unable to bear the awful truth. 

 

“Wake up Edward,” he demanded. “Wake up!” 

 

“Help him Richard!” Anne begged. “Please, Richard, save him!” 

 

And Richard tried. 

 

Gods, he killed himself trying. 

 

He pulled his boy into his arms, hugged him close to his chest so tightly his arms began to tremble. 

 

“Edward,” he began shakily. He was distantly aware of Anne’s desperate eyes on him, waiting for him to wake their son, to show his true power as King. “Breathe for me!” he begged. 

 

Ned did not breathe. 

 

“I am your king and you will breathe for me!” he demanded. 

 

Still, his boy, who had never disobeyed a direct order from his father in his life, did not breathe. 

 

“Edward!” he sobbed. “Aphrodite please,” he whispered. 

 

She did not answer either. 

 

Anne screamed. 

 

xvii. 

 

Ned had been dead three weeks when Richard first heard of Henry Tudor. His mind flashes to Margaret Beaufort, his once almost-betrothed, and he realises that this boy could have been his step-son, if the world had been different. 

 

“On what grounds is invading Troy?” Richard questioned. 

 

Francis hesitated, his eyes darting around the room. With a lift of his hand, Richard commanded most of the remaining courtiers to vacate the room, leaving only him, Francis, Brackenbury and Rob Percy in the throne room. 

 

“On the grounds of your tyranny,” Francis supplied, his face grim. “He claims that you murdered your nephews - stole their throne. He says that you killed your cousin because he tried to tell people the truth.” 

 

Richard winced at the mention of his brother’s sons. 

 

“When does he mean to land?” Richard asked eventually. 

 

“In the late summer,” Francis answered. 

 

Robert Brackenbury moved forward, stood beside Francis. 

 

“Your grace, if I may, Tudor hardly poses a threat. He’s been given a small army by the Franks, but the Greeks want nothing to do with him. They’re happy with the way things used to be before Mad Harry of Lancaster’s grandfather made himself the high ruler of Greece.” 

 

“Even Ithaca, the stronghold of his uncle’s seat refused to aid him?” 

 

Robert hesitated. 

 

“They have aided him,” he admitted reluctantly. “But your grace, they are a small island and have little men. It makes little difference whether or not they do or do not aid him.” 

 

Richard had to smile slightly at his confidence. He rested one of his hands on his chin, stroked it in thought. His crown hung heavy on his head. Heavier than it ever had before. The court was still in mourning for their Prince’s death, and even now Richard could still smell the candles and herbs that were lit in his son’s honour, to aid him in the afterlife and judgement with Hades. 

 

And for another heir. 

 

Richard glanced at his side, his heart twisting painfully at the empty throne. 

 

Anne had not attended court since Ned’s death. She had only ventured outdoors for his funeral. 

 

“Very well,” he said grimly. “We will prepare for invasion, deal with this Tudor threat once and for all.” 

 

Francis and Robert nodded in agreement, their faces equally grim. 

 

No one wanted this war, least of all Richard. 

 

His heart was so tired. Too battered and bruised to truly care for the upcoming invasion. 

 

“Is that all?” he questioned. 

 

Francis and Robert exchanged a look. 

 

“Yes,” Francis said hesitantly. 

 

Richard rose without further prompt, told all who remained in the throne room that he would be left alone for the rest of the day. He dared not return to his chambers. Anne would be there, lying on the bed, oblivious to the world around her and while he wanted to comfort her, he couldn’t bare her tears, her open out poor of grief. 

 

For if he started to cry, Richard was certain that he’d never stop, and he could not afford that. Not when he had so many enemies, not when a war for his throne was up ahead. He made his way to the battlements, cooly observed the sunset. 

 

_Ned will never see a sunset again._

 

The thought went through his heart like a dagger. Richard winced against the sudden breeze and tried his hardest to keep his grief at bay. _Gods,_ he thought. _Has it only been ten years Anne came to Troy?_ It felt like a lifetime. 

 

“Dickon,” Francis murmured. 

 

Richard didn’t know when Francis came onto the battlements, found he did not care much. 

 

“I was just thinking,” he said. “Ned will never see a sunset ever again.” 

 

“Dickon —“ 

 

“Something so simple,” Richard continued to murmur. “And he’ll never have that.” 

 

“Dickon, I’m so sorry.”

 

Richard smiled sadly and gazed at the horizon, where the sea extended so far out it seemed to melt into the sky. 

 

“What for?” he asked emotionlessly. “It wasn’t your fault.” 

 

A dreadful rupture, the physicians had said. Nothing anyone could have done, your grace. 

 

“Veronique is concerned about Anne,” Francis said quietly. “She says Anne isn’t sleeping or eating, barely drinks any water. She simply lies there and cries, Dickon.” 

 

Richard inhaled sharply, had to bite down on his lip to prevent himself from making a wounded noise of agony. 

 

“She’s grieving,” he muttered hollowly. 

 

“You’ve suffered a horrible loss,” Francis continued gently. He placed a hand on Richard’s elbow, forced his friend to look him in the eye. “But you need each other. Now more than ever.” 

 

Richard shook his head, some of his dark curls escaped from where they were pinned down by his crown, fell in front of his eyes. 

 

“She asked me to help him, Francis,” he whispered. “I couldn’t help him. I couldn’t help _my son._ He needed me and I couldn’t bring him back. _Gods_ I tried,” he said. Tears pierced his eyes. His throat tightened painfully as he struggled to speak. 

 

“I tried so hard,” he gasped, his mouth twisted into a sob. 

 

Richard hadn’t cried since Ned died. Had not cried at his funeral. 

 

Francis hugged him tightly, let Richard lean his head on his shoulder. 

 

“I’m sorry, Dickon,” he kept on murmuring. And Richard could feel Francis’s tears on his shoulder, and knew his friend grieved for Ned like he did, that he loved Ned as though he were his own. Ned had loved Francis, had in many ways viewed him more like an uncle than Edward or George. 

 

Francis pulled away from him, forced Richard to stand straight and wipe at his eyes. 

 

“You will survive this,” he told him passionately. “You will. Both you and Anne.” 

 

“He was my son, Francis,” Richard breathed. “My only son. My only _child.”_

 

“I know,” Francis replied. “Anne needs you, Richard. Go to her.” 

 

xviii. 

 

When Richard eventually found his way to their chambers, he was surprised to see Anne sitting up in bed. She was drinking some wine or water when he entered, and the way she lowered her gaze and sat still made his heart break all the more. 

 

He walked to her side of the bed, sat down beside her on the space between her legs and the edge of the bed. 

 

“Anne,” he murmured. “We need to talk.” 

 

He heard her sigh quietly and he observed her as she placed her cup on the nightstand and looked down into her lap. Grief had aged her. Her long chestnut locks which had once been a pure, unblemished colour was no slightly littered with grey hairs. Anne’s brown eyes which usually reflected flecks of gold were now a hollow, dark colour drowned in the grey circles around her eyes. 

 

“What of?” she asked impassively. 

 

Richard summoned what little remained of his strength and spoke. 

 

“You’re not eating,” he said gently. “You barely sleep. You don’t come to court — you haven’t left these rooms since Ned died.” 

 

“I’m grieving,” she replied sharply. 

 

“So am I,” he responded, his voice calm and even. “But Anne, you can’t simply waste away. Ned would not have wanted that.” 

 

“What do either of us know about what Ned wanted? He was only a boy. And now. . . now he’s only ash and dust.” 

 

Richard leaned forward, gripped onto both of her hands tightly. 

 

“You can’t die too,” he begged. The sheer fear and desperation he felt finally bled into his voice. Anne raised her eyes, startled by this open display of emotion. “You can’t.” And for the second time that afternoon, Richard felt his eyes grow misty. “I can’t lose you too. I can not.” 

 

“Richard,” Anne murmured. 

 

“When I see you wasting away like this. . . Gods, I can’t help but think you’re going to be taken from me too!” 

 

His eyes began to water and he moved away from the bed abruptly, angrily blinked away his tears. 

 

“Oh Richard,” Anne sighed. He heard the sheets rustle behind him, heard her hesitantly rise from the bed. “How one’s own grief makes us blind to another’s suffering.” He felt one of her hands rest on his weak shoulder. 

 

“Ned’s death wasn’t your fault, my love,” Anne told him. “The Gods aren’t punishing you, nor have they abandoned you.” 

 

“Do you know what Aphrodite told me all those years ago? When she told me the curse had been broken?” 

 

He could taste her confusion on his tongue. 

 

“She said that as long as I maintained my princely head she would forever favour me,” he said. Richard let out a bitter, broken chuckle. He turned his head towards Anne, observed her sympathetic and awaiting gaze. 

 

“I am no longer a prince, Anne,” he told her. “I no longer have a princely head. I am a King.” 

 

“Oh, no. Richard. . .” 

 

He moved away from her, grew closer to the balcony. 

 

“The Gods gave Troy another chance, and what did we do with that chance? We destroyed each other. Brother turned against brother. Uncle turned against nephew.” He cast a glance at the small statues of the Gods on the prayer table. “I swore by all the Gods that I would protect my nephew and would ensure he became King when he was of age. And what did I do instead, Anne? By Gods, what did I do?” 

 

Anne managed to grab a hold of one of his arms, held him in place. 

 

“You had the right Richard,” she said fiercely. “You didn’t steal anything. You took the crown to save your family against the Woodville’s — to save your son!” 

 

“And he died anyway,” Richard finished bitterly. “And so did my nephews. They died because of me.” 

 

“No! You didn’t give the order to kill them! You didn’t want that, my love.” 

 

Richard’s grey eyes grew so dark they were almost black. 

 

“Maybe,” he agreed, without much conviction. “But they wouldn’t have died if I had simply ignored Stillington and let my nephew be crowned. Maybe our son would still be alive. Maybe the Gods would not punish us so.” 

 

Anne grabbed a hold of his other arm, and her grip was so tight Richard felt his arms begin to bruise. 

 

“Listen to me,” she said slowly. “Ned died because of an illness. A rupture that no physician could heal. Many children die of the same sickness. Your brother lost three children to it as well. Dickon, the Gods blessed us with the birth of our boy and the years we spent with him. You are a good man, Richard. You sought only to bring peace to Troy and save it from a boy-King when you took the throne — which you had every right to. The Gods haven’t abandoned you.” 

 

Richard’s eyes lingered on her face, slid down to her arms, her stomach, her legs. 

 

“You’re so thin,” he whispered. He managed to lift his hands, placed a finger under her chin. “I can’t lose you. I can not.” 

 

Anne hugged him around the waist, buried her head into his chest. 

 

And it was then she voiced her deepest fear. 

 

“I’ve placed you in a horrible position, Dickon,” she murmured. “You have no heir. And the people are wary of you because of me. Because of who I was all those years ago. I rather think, sometimes, that you would be better if I let you go and let you wed and Queen another —“ 

 

“Don’t say that!” Richard exclaimed harshly. Anne blinked with surprise at the ferocity on his face. “Never say that! You mean everything to me. I couldn’t be King without you, let alone survive all of this without you by my side, especially with Henry Tudor’s invasion —“ 

 

His eyes widened as he abruptly shut his mouth. 

 

“What of Tudor’s invasion?” Anne asked.  “What is it, Richard?” 

 

Richard had not planned on telling Anne of Tudor tonight; he had wanted to give her time to heal before he let her know of Tudor’s upcoming invasion. It was only now he realised the foolishness of his plan. Veronique would have told Anne regardless, or she would have heard it from the courtiers. 

 

Cursing himself all the while, he told her of Tudor’s upcoming attack, how he had the support of some of the Franks who supplied him with an army, and Ithaca. Ithaca, whose leader they had killed in the war. He told her how Tudor was telling those on the other side of the sea that he was a murderer, a tyrant. 

 

“How large is his army?” 

 

“Around three thousand or so, according to the scouts.” 

 

He heard Anne let out a relieved sigh. 

 

“We outnumber him greatly, Richard. We’ll defeat him. I know we will.” 

 

Richard smiled at her thinly. 

 

“I know,” he murmured, not quite sure whether or not he believed himself. “I know.” 

 

xix. 

 

Tudor arrived on Troy’s shores on a bright summer day, similar to that of when he and Anne arrived ten years ago. Richard can see the fleet of ships from his battlements, can see the white sails and his heart beats slowly in his chest. 

 

Richard has been King for almost two years, and he fully intends on ruling for many more. 

 

“Aphrodite,” he murmurs, the wind stirring his dark curls. “Give me the strength to defeat this man.” 

 

— 

 

Tudor has the same pale look as his mother. His eyes are a clear blue, sharp and cold as they meet Richard, as they land on the crown on his head. His eyes were that of someone who had suffered - who had fought tooth and nail for every scrap of power they were ever given. 

 

Richard spares little thought for the men beside him — he merely focuses on the man sitting below him, staring at him so coldly, so ruthlessly. 

 

“Why are you here?” he asks, once the pleasantries have ended. 

 

Tudor tilts his head as if in thought but does not respond immediately.

 

“Why do you think?” 

 

Richard hears Francis mutter and shoots his friend a quick look. 

 

“No riddles,” Anne says cooly. Tudor’s eyes dart to her figure and narrow considerably. 

 

“Lady Anne,” he acknowledges. “Rumours of your beauty were not exaggerated by those in your homeland.” 

 

“Troy is my home,” she retorts. “I am Queen of this land and you are an unwelcome guest.” 

 

“Name your price and leave,” Richard cuts in. Tudor’s eyes return to him, consider him closely. “You seem like a smart man,” Richard continues. “You don’t have the men, you don’t have the horses. My city has seen enough war, has known  enough pain. Too many sons of Troy have died,” his mind flashes to Ned, his boy, and his heart tightens painfully in his chest. 

 

“So, in the name of peace, I am letting you name some price. Some money, some treasure in return for you leaving Troy alone.” 

 

“And what of justice?” Tudor asks. 

 

“Justice,” Anne repeats. “What do you know of justice?” 

 

Tudor smiles cooly and rises to his feet. 

 

“I reject your terms for I know the Gods are in my favour. My cause is blessed.” 

 

“Your army will be decimated tomorrow,” Richard says, his temper rising. “Sleep well, Sir. Now I suggest you leave before I have you thrown over the city walls.” 

 

xx. 

 

The next morn, Richard leads his men into battle, Anne’s kiss still burning his lips as he grips his sword. 

 

Richard has not been in a battle for so long, but he falls into the rhythm of death and gore with frightening ease. 

 

He fights for his Ned — for his brother, for the city he had come to call home and was now in charge of protecting and leading. Richard may not have wished to be King, but he loved his city with all his heart, and the Gods had made it so that he was King. So Richard fought as hard as he could, and won.

 

_I’m tired,_ he thinks, when Tudor’s remaining forces flee back to the beaches. _I want to rest. I want my city to be in peace — I want to start over, I want my people to be happy. Please, Gods._  

 

— 

 

It is nigh on two weeks when Richard receives word that Tudor and what little remained of his forces had left Troy. At first, he did not believe it. He climbed to his battlements and squinted at the horizon, expecting to see the sails from Tudor’s ships. 

 

They were not there. 

 

He sent scout after scout to the beach, and they all returned with the same answer, saying that they had left but — 

 

“What is it?” Richard asks, surveying the mighty wooden horse left behind by Tudor. 

 

He saw Anne move closer to the horse from the corner of his eye. 

 

“My lord,” Thomas Stanley said, moving closer to him. “Perhaps it is an offering. Tudor’s army was in shambles after the battle — he must have seen reason and returned home. Left this behind in order to seek Poseidon’s blessing for calm waters.” 

 

“So easily?” Francis questions. 

 

Richard turns to look at his friend, who eyes the horse mistrustfully. 

 

“I would like to believe it, my King,” Francis says to him. “We must make sure that this is truly an offering.” 

 

“He is right,” Thomas Stanley said. He nodded to one of his guards, who moved forth and stabbed the belly of the horse. Richard waited with bated breath, exhaled with relief when grain began to seep through the hole. 

 

“Send scouts around the countryside and coastline,” Richard instructs to the men beside him. “I wish to ensure that Tudor has truly left.” 

 

Anne turns to look at him, offers him a small smile. 

 

Richard approaches her, gently reaches for her hand. 

 

“Now, we shall know peace,” he tells her quietly. 

 

Richard is tired — so tired. His loss makes him ache — makes him desperate for this to be true. He wants no more battle — no more betrayal or scheming, and it is right within his reach. 

 

“Together,” she responds, squeezing his hand. 

 

Richard smiles. 

 

“Have the horse brought into the city,” he tells the guards. “Troy shall feast tonight.” 

 

xxi. 

 

And they danced and laughed and played music well into the night. 

 

The kitchens managed to prepare a splendid feast for their victory, and Richard watched with tentative happiness as the people through petals and rice in the air as they danced and drank. He and Anne were dressed in their best robes, laughing and talking with the nobles well into the night after they said their thanks to the Gods. 

 

“My people,” Richard says, rising from his throne. The room instantly grows quiet as the people survey their King and Queen. “Troy has known great loss these past twenty years. We have lost too many soldiers, too many fathers.” He pauses, the ghost of his boy hovering at the corner of his eye. “Too many sons.” 

 

He looks down at his cup, somehow finds the strength to continue. 

 

“But I swear to you, Troy shall know peace. Our city is strong and proud, and we will survive and prosper for thousands of years, I promise you. The Gods smile upon us, and know our cause is true.” 

 

Anne rises from her throne as well, raises her wine cup in unison with Richard. 

 

“To peace,” they cheer. “To peace and prosperity.” 

 

The nobles cry out in agreement, and the music starts anew. Richard catches Francis’ eye, and smiles at his dear friend. He makes his way over to him, manages to avoid being asked to join the dancers in the centre of the room, and laughs the instant he reaches Francis’ side. 

 

“Did you ever regret it?” he asks. 

 

Francis looks at him confusedly. 

 

“Coming with me that day? Leaving your home?” 

 

Francis is the one to laugh now. 

 

“No,” he tells him. “Not for a moment.” 

 

Strangely, that means more to Richard that anything, equal only to Anne and Ned’s love. 

 

“I must go, Dickon,” Francis says suddenly, grinning at Veronique who is beckoning him to dance with her from across the room. “My love calls me.”

 

Richard watches amusedly as his friend makes his way to her, and takes another sip from his wine. His eyes flicker across the room, take note of all the nobles. Jack Howard, Robert Brackenbury, Rob Percy, who were all laughing together in a corner, Thomas Stanley who had suddenly appeared beside Richard — 

 

William Stanley was nowhere in sight. In fact, Richard vaguely remembered seeing him exit the throne room after the dancing had begun. He had not returned since. 

 

_Stanleys serve whoever they think will benefit them the most,_ Ned had told him once. 

 

Richard cast another wary look around the throne room, tried his best to hide his sudden unease from Thomas Stanley. 

 

“Where is your brother?” he asked quietly. 

 

Thomas Stanley blinked rapidly, though Richard noticed how his eyes widened slightly in alarm. 

 

“Why, your grace he merely went outside for some fresh air. He said he found the room rather stifling.” 

 

“Stifling,” Richard repeated flatly. 

 

He could see thin lines of sweat begin to form on Thomas Stanley’s face. 

 

“Richard,” Anne called out, suddenly appearing at his side. He looked at her blankly, noticed her crown glinting under the light of the torches. “What is wrong, my love?” 

 

He glanced at the side, and realised with a sinking heart that Thomas Stanley had slipped away; had used Anne’s appearance as a means to escape. _Stop it,_ he thought to himself, bringing his wine cup to his lips. _Tudor is gone. Troy is safe. You won._

 

But the sudden nervousness in his heart did not fade. 

 

“Richard?” Anne questioned, concern evident on her features. 

 

By that time, Francis had approached him too, his eyes narrowed with worry as he placed a hand on Richard’s shoulder. 

 

“Francis,” Richard began slowly, horror making bile rise up his throat. “To whose man did the scout belong to? The one who confirmed for certain that Tudor’s forces had left?” 

 

Francis tilted his head at him, unsuspecting. 

 

“To Lord William Stanley,” he answered. “Why?”

 

“Oh Gods,” Richard breathed, his heartbeat running wild so suddenly his vision grew blurry. “Oh Gods what have I done?” 

 

“Dickon, what is the matter —“ 

 

“Francis, if you were Lord Stanley, whose rule would you think to benefit more under? Me, or Tudor?” he hissed. 

 

The courtiers around them continued on with the celebrations, unaware of their impending doom. Of the treachery their King had discovered right under his nose. All the colour on Francis’s face disappeared as his jaw grew slack. 

 

“Why are you asking this?” Anne demanded, though Richard could see realisation begin to form in her eyes. 

 

“Because neither of the Stanley’s are here,” Richard told her. “Do either of you wonder why that is?” 

 

“Dear Zeus,” Francis murmured, stunned beyond belief. “The horse. The fucking horse!” 

 

The musicians and harpists stopped at Francis’s sudden yell. Everyone stirred around them, confused as to the sudden commotion. Richard heard Anne gasp loudly, heard the loud clang of her wine cup hitting the floor. 

 

_Stanley was the one most in favour of bringing the horse into the city,_ Richard thought dazedly. _It was his guard who —_ It was all coming together so fast. This treachery. This treason that occurred right under his nose, and he didn’t realise until it was too late. 

 

“We might still have time,” he said hurriedly. 

 

He ran for the door with Francis by his side and had half the mind to raise his hands and beckon some of the guards to come with him. Richard ran so fast the world around him was in a blur, and he reached the bottom of the palace stairs with frightening quickness. 

 

The city was quiet. Most of the commoners had drank and feasted and danced during the day. They were all fast asleep now. Safe and warm in their beds with peace in their minds because their King had promised them that the rebel was gone, that they were safe and now — 

 

“Oh Gods,” Richard whispered. Shock made his body tremble as he stared in terror at that horse. At that Gods forsaken, fucking horse. Numbness seeped into his bones as he noticed the four dead guards lying by the horse with their throats slit. At the trap door revealed at the belly of the horse. 

 

_They must have hid in the neck and legs,_ Richard thought, and the idea was so ingenious he would have laughed had it not been happening to his city. 

 

“Summon the army, grab any soldiers you can find,” he said hollowly, still reeling from shock. 

 

He and Francis tensed as they heard — 

 

“What is that?” Francis asked quietly, fear evident in his voice. 

 

It sounded an awful lot like thumping on the ground. Like an endless series of drums against the ground. 

 

“What is that noise?” 

 

Richard heard some murmurs of nervousness 

from the other guards, knew that if he turned he would see them struggle to believe the truth. The Gods awful truth. 

 

“That’s an army marching at our gates,” Richard said quietly. 

 

_Oh Gods no._

 

_No no no._

 

“Fuck,” Francis swore loudly. “Those treacherous cunts —“ 

 

“No time for that,” Richard interrupted. He swung around to meet Francis and the other guards, stared his men right in the eyes. “Wake the small folk, bring them into the palace. Take as many guards as you can spare and wake as many as you possibly can before they enter the gates because they _will_ enter the gates, and by now there is nothing we can do to stop them.” 

 

The guard blinked rapidly, still stunned by the sudden turn of events. 

 

“Now!” Richard yelled. 

 

The guard stammered and scrambled away as fast as he could. 

 

“Francis,” Richard said, calling immediately to his friend’s attention. “Take any man — woman, child, and work on getting those tunnels open. Now. They’re not closed completely, so if we manage to hold them off for long enough, we might be able to get some people out of the city.”

 

“Dickon —“ 

 

“Not now,” he said sharply. “By Gods, they will enter the city at any fucking moment and there is nothing we can do to stop it. We need to gather men now and get them to the gates. We need to get as much time as we can for the commoners to enter the palace and reach the tunnels.” 

 

“But Dickon — most of our guards are drunk from the celebrations or in bed with their wives or some whore and the army is not assembled —“ 

 

“I know that, Francis!” Richard yelled, his voice breaking painfully as the stomping of the army grew closer and closer. “Now by Gods we need to move before they start their slaughter. And the Stanley’s. . .” Richard shook his head, his crown shifted dangerously, was close to falling to the ground. 

 

He heard some commotion from the city — heard the small group of guards starting the evacuation of the lower city and the common folk into the palace. 

 

And then they ran like their lives depended on it, because it did. 

 

— 

 

By the time he reached the throne room once more, the courtiers were aware of the danger outside. Richard could tell by the sheer panic on their faces — the fear that haunted their eyes. Richard had no time to spare to comfort them, to offer his people his thoughts and soothe their feelings of betrayal. 

 

Even in the throne room, he could hear the echoes of the slaughter starting to happen as Tudor’s men started to sack the city. 

 

“Go to the tunnels!” he yelled, to all the courtiers who simply stood there, frightened. “Start opening them now!” 

 

A small group of soldiers led the ongoing crowd to the tunnels and Richard was momentarily assured that at least _some_ of his people would survive. He could still scarcely believe it was happening. That the Stanley’s had betrayed him and allowed Tudor into Troy inside that _fucking_ horse. 

 

A group of three hundred soldiers or so had managed to be gathered and Richard observed them amidst the chaos, noticed their sloppily worn armour. The glimmers of fear in their eyes overshadowed by a grim sense of determination. 

 

Someone handed him his sword — he wasn’t sure who, but he was grateful to have something to hold onto. His crown gleamed on his head, carried him down. 

 

“Your grace,” Robert Brackenbury called out, his eyes dark. “Is that wise?” he gestured to the crown. 

 

Richard smirked cheekily, despite the death and gloom waiting outside their door. 

 

“If Tudor wants my crown so badly he’ll know where to find me,” he said shortly. 

 

Some of the men laughed and Richard wanted to say something, but did not know what. The palace was full of terrified people now. He could hear screams and cries inside the palace as people hurried on opening the gates, and knew that even though he wanted to say something to them, to thank them for their service, now was not the time. 

 

They rushed outside the palace steps and it was only a small cry of his name that made him halt in his steps. 

 

“Francis!” he exclaimed, his heart leapt to his throat at the sight of his friend. He hadn’t been too sure when Francis had left his side — he was too overwhelmed by the sudden dressing of his armour, the fear of his people, the knowledge that he was most likely going to die this night. 

 

He ignored the fact that he didn’t know where Anne was, that he hadn’t seen her since he’d left the throne room the first time. 

 

“Archers,” Francis gasped, his sword steady in his hand. “I managed to find twenty archers.” 

 

Richard smiled at him, though it was without any warmth or happiness, and clasped him on the shoulder. 

 

“Good man,” he said shortly. 

 

He turned to look at the city — _his_ city, and his heart tore itself away in his chest at the sight. So much was on fire — it was all burning around him. Everything Ned and his father, and his father before him had built. It was all crumpling into nothing before his very eyes, and there was little to nothing he could do about it. 

 

_No,_ he thought determinedly. _You can still do something. You can kill Tudor’s men and buy your people more time._

 

He saw Tudor’s soldiers then, saw a lot of them break formation to ravage the lower city. To kill and rape and burn as they liked. 

 

_Stanley,_ his heart roared. _Those fucking Stanley’s._

 

“Form a line!” Richard yelled. 

 

The men obeyed him at once and moved into a rectangular formation, with their shields up and their spears peaking through the cracks. 

 

“Archers, on the top of the steps!” 

 

He heard the archers scramble away, was sure that they spread themselves at an appropriate distance. The line began to move forward slowly. Richard saw through the cracks that a few of the Trojan guards had already made their way down to the lower city. Probably the ones responsible for waking the townsfolk. Not that they needed that anymore. 

 

Richard admired anyone who could sleep through the hell that was occurring at that very moment. 

 

He saw the Greeks inch closer, was aware that soon he would have to close the palace doors to everyone, that they would have to retreat soon and allow the few survivors all the time they could allow before Tudor eventually stormed the gates. 

 

“Hold the line!” he yelled again. “Archers! Steady!” 

 

_Just a little closer, just a little closer._

 

“Loose!” 

 

A series of arrows descended upon the invaders, causing blood to splatter on the ground and more cries to fill the air. 

 

“Loose!” 

 

By the second attack, the invaders were then aware of the danger, and had the mind to lift their shields. 

 

“Now!” 

 

The Trojan line broke, and Richard along with what little army he managed to gather pounced upon what remained of Tudor’s and Stanley’s soldiers, though most were now pillaging and sacking the city, careless to any resistance they might find. They were sure they would win; knew without a doubt that the Trojans had no hope of fighting them off now they were within the city walls. 

 

Ned had said so as well during the war with Lancaster. 

 

_As long as Troy manages to keep its enemies outside the city walls there is always hope._

 

There wasn’t now, but Richard fought anyway. 

 

By Gods, he fought so hard. 

 

He killed and killed and killed until his face and hair and crown was drenched and splattered with blood, and his lungs were aching and the dead fell at his feet. He was aware of women and children crying; of men crying out in pain as swords pierced through their skin and deprived them of life. Richard was distantly aware of the people flocking inside the palace gates, knew that soon he would have to give the order to retreat. 

 

_Just one more kill,_ he thought to himself, as yet another body fell to the ground. _Just one more._

 

He said that as his shoulders began to ache, as both Tudor and Trojan men began to fall around him. 

 

“Dickon!” Francis yelled, as the last of the Tudor men fell to the ground. “We need to go inside the palace. Now!” 

 

“No,” Richard protested. He shook his head, listened carefully to the steady marching of soldiers against the ground. “There’s so many of them left, Francis. The other commoners won’t stand a chance. We need to wait, just a little longer —“ 

 

“Dickon if we wait any longer the people inside won’t survive either! Almost half of our men are dead. . .” Francis’s voice drifted off, his face slackening with surprise as he caught sight of something behind them. 

 

“Rob!” he cried. 

 

Richard swirled around and his heart practically jumped to his throat at the sight of his friend, clad in his armour with at least another hundred men behind him. 

 

“Your grace,” Rob murmured, offering them a wide smile as he took in the chaos around him. “And here I thought the festivities were getting a bit out of hand.” 

 

Richard couldn’t help but chuckle darkly. 

 

“You don’t say,” he retorted sarcastically. 

 

Rob grinned at him and unsheathed his sword. 

 

“Ready to fight some more, your grace?” he questioned cheekily. 

 

And they fought together side by side, the lot of them. 

 

Like brothers in arms. 

 

They fought and bled and Gods, Francis and Rob and Robert guarded him as they fought a hopeless fight. Arrows flew left right and centre and swords kissed and danced around each other and blood drenched the ground and men died and his people were dying and his city was burning, the city he thought he had the right to rule. His son died here, his brothers died here, he brought Anne here, this was home and by Gods, he was going to die here. 

 

Robert leapt in front of him, a knife meant for Richard slid through his throat, caused blood to gurgle on his lips as he fell to the ground in an ungraceful heap — but Richard had no time to comprehend this loss, to register the fact that one of his closest friends just died because — 

 

“Tudor,” he gasped. 

 

His eyes glared fixedly at the man surrounded by all a group of guards. The light from the torches cast his face in an even more suspicious light. Somehow, someway, Richard knew this was Tudor, knew it in his bones. Richard had seen Tudor on the battlefield once, from a distance, but nothing compared to the hatred that surged in his chest at that moment. He had only felt such hatred towards one other: and that was Lancaster. Lancaster who was long dead; killed and burned on the beaches of Troy a decade ago, and now Richard was — 

 

“Get inside!” Francis yelled, as Richard stood there glaring at Tudor with fire in his veins. 

 

He and Tudor locked gazes, and he saw his foe’s eyes narrow as they locked in on the crown on his head. 

 

_He knows who I am. He knows where to find me._

 

Richard shot Francis a look, cast a glance at what remained of his soldiers. 

 

“Pull back!” he yelled. “Go back to the palace!” 

 

But even as he moved back to the palace, went up the stairs with his back facing the enemy, he could still feel Tudor’s eyes glaring into the back of his skull like daggers. They reached the palace gates, where both nobles and common folks were running around in panic, scrambling for their lives. 

 

“Are the tunnels open?” Richard breathed to one of the guards. 

 

At the solemn expression on the man’s face, Richard instantly knew the answer. 

 

“Fuck!” he swore. He turned so he was looking down the stairs now, looking at his enemy face to face. 

 

“We need more time!” Francis said loudly, having to elevate his voice so they could hear him. 

 

Richard bit down on his lower lip, could taste blood inside of his mouth. 

 

“We need to barricade the doors of the palace,” Richard said quickly, his thoughts barely formed before they flew out of his mouth. “Put tables, chairs, planks, anything we can find. And then we wait for them. All that remains of us. Fight until we can’t any longer.” 

 

“The Greeks will get here any moment,” Rob cut in. “We’ll barely have enough time to close the gates, let alone barricade them!” 

 

“I know that!” Richard snapped. “I can stay out here, hold them off —“ his voice broke off at the sight of the soldiers approaching the palace steps steadily. “We don’t have time for this,” he hissed. “Get inside, now!” 

 

Richard waited until most of the men had gone inside and he scarcely realised that Rob and a few dozen other soldiers had stayed outside until the palace gates were closing. 

 

“Rob no!” he yelled. 

 

He tried to lunge forward and drag his friend inside, but Francis grabbed a hold of him, held him back. 

 

“I’m staying outside!” Rob yelled. “I’ll buy you enough time, I promise —“ 

 

The gates closed and Rob’s voice disappeared like a candle flame in the wind. 

 

_Oh Gods,_ Richard thought. His heart pulsed with pain as he thought of Robert and Rob Percy, his friends who were now dead, or as good as. 

 

“Barricade the door!” he heard himself call out. “Now!” 

 

He wasn’t even sure if the soldiers heard him, but soon enough they were scrambling to lock the door, shoving tables and chairs and anything they could find in front of it to prevent the invaders from coming inside. The palace was full of cries and shrieks and the stench of death and fire and despair lingered under his nose. 

 

“Form a line!” he growled loudly. He grabbed a hold of Francis’s arm and spoke loudly so his friend could hear him amidst the noises around them. “I’m going to the tunnels to help!” 

 

Francis looked at him and began to follow quickly. They had to push and shove their way down to the tunnels and by Gods it boiled his blood to see so many of his people running around in fear and not going down to help, because they probably didn’t even know what was happening, because they thought they were safe, _he_ told them they were safe and then they weren’t — 

 

“Richard!” Anne gasped, she flew into his arms and despite it all, Richard hugged her back, relieved to find  at least she still was alive. The tunnels were dimly lit from the torches they managed to smuggle down, and he could see the long lines of people —noblemen and commoners alike digging through the stones and the mud, passing the stones back and back as they eliminated what stood between them and their last chance of survival. 

 

“How much longer?” he asked and pulled away, sure that if he stayed in her arms for long enough he wouldn’t want to leave. Would simply collapse against the weight of betrayal. 

 

“Not long,” she said shortly. Her eyes darted over to Francis, widened at the empty space beside him. “What of Rob Percy? Robert Brackenbury —“ 

 

Richard shook his head. He saw Veronique approach Francis from the corner of his eye and while he was relieved to see her, he knew now was not the time for such sentiments. He pushed forward with Anne by his side, made his way to the front of the line as he started pulling back the stones piece by piece. Anne started doing the same — her hands already caked with blood and blisters and dirt, but Gods, they were King and Queen and they swore to defend and protect their people and — 

 

The stones gave way, revealed the dark forest night ahead of them. He heard gasps of relief behind him and there was a surge forward as people battled their way out of the city and into the wilderness, where what little chance of a future awaited them. _Gods, there is only a few hundred of them._

 

Richard was King to thousands and he could only save a few hundred at the most. His mind flashed to outside the gates, where he had seen the bodies of men, women and children littering the ground — 

 

“You need to go,” Richard said hurriedly to Anne. “If you all continue straight along the river, you’ll reach the fork, take the left and continue on. If you follow the path, you’ll be able to reach Cilicia in about two weeks or so —“ 

 

“No!” Anne protested loudly, her brown eyes wide with outrage. “I’m not going anywhere — not without you.” 

 

Richard shook his head, his temper flaring as he took in the stubborn set of her jaw. 

 

“We don’t have time for this,” he muttered frustratingly. “Tudor will break down the door at any moment!” 

 

And Richard had no intention of leaving his men alone to deal with the army. He turned around, saw that Francis was kissing Veronique, patting her hair with his bloody hands as he bid her farewell. He wanted to tell Francis to leave too — but knew that he would not, and his heart warmed at his friend’s devotion through it all. 

 

“Veronique,” he murmured desperately, as she moved away from Francis. Her face was pale with grief, but her eyes were focused. “Anne once sent you to take me to safety,” he told her. “This is the last thing I’ll ever ask of you — do the same for me. Take her to safety. Please.” 

 

She nodded fervently, her eyes swelling with tears. A fierce surge of affection clenched around his heart and he pressed a quick kiss to her forehead as he moved her towards Anne. 

 

“Richard, I’m not going!” she said. “I will not, not as long as you and the others stay —“ 

 

And Richard would have laughed at her stubbornness if this were any other time, but it wasn’t and this was the last time he would ever see her. _Gods, I have so much I wish to say — I wish we had more time, my love. But we don’t and I love you, I’ll love you forever —_

 

“I love you,” he whispered and kissed her fiercely, with all the passion and strength that remained in him. _I’m so sorry._ “I’ll see you.” 

 

And then he was off, running back to his soldiers with Francis by his side. His heart stayed with Anne — was firmly in her keeping as he pushed and shoved to get his way back to the final fight, and he couldn’t deal with this other loss — he couldn’t, he _wouldn’t._

 

By the time they returned, Tudor’s soldiers had already begun to breach the gates. There were only about a hundred men left and even in the dark Richard could see fear in their eyes. 

 

“Are you with me?” he asked loudly, his voice echoing across the room. “You can go to the tunnels — I will not stop you.” 

 

Not one of them moved, and despite himself, Richard’s eyes blurred with tears. 

 

“For Troy!” they all yelled, as the door gave way and countless of soldiers came rushing through with swords and spears. 

 

Richard did not know how long they fought for. It was all a swirl of arrows and swords and blood and Gods — so much blood, he had never seen something like it before. He knew it was hopeless, knew they were going to die, but he fought on anyway. _I can lure Tudor away. It is me he wants. It is me he rebelled against._

 

But Richard could not see Tudor. He knew his crown was drawing soldiers to him like a moth to a flame, but he did not care. For it was Tudor he needed to defeat — who was so close to him. If he could lure Tudor away, have him chase after him, he could give his people more time — 

 

“Dickon it’s hopeless!” Francis yelled, as their numbers decreased rapidly while the enemies did the exact opposite. 

 

“I can’t leave —  not yet!” 

 

And then — 

 

“Tudor!” Richard yelled. 

 

The man’s eyes immediately landed on Richard and he had to bring his sword up to doge a blow from an opposing soldier. The man was dead within moments, and Richard and Tudor locked eyes and hatred burned through him — hatred and frustration and — 

 

“Come and find me!” 

 

And he looked around him — his men were dead besides Francis or close to dead anyway, and soon they would be surrounded and butchered but no, Dickon needed more time, he had to buy more time and so he grabbed a hold of Francis and ran like his life depended on it. 

 

He wasn’t sure how they managed to get out of the bloodbath and make it to his chambers, but he found he did not care. Henry Tudor would find him eventually, either Lord Stanley would see that Tudor was well informed as to where his private chambers were. He barricaded the door with help from Francis, and it was then he allowed himself to feel the full brunt of his injuries — of his tiredness. 

 

Richard and Francis panted heavily as they stood there and stared at the door. 

 

“There’s no way out,” Francis murmured. 

 

Richard turned to stare at him, his words dying on his lips at the expression on his friend’s face. He could hear the cries of his people more clearly now; could hear the fires crackling and the screams — by Gods the screams. 

 

“That’s not true,” he said softly, with what little strength he possessed. 

 

He managed to drag himself to the back of the room and took Francis to the corner of the room, where a wall and series of columns hid them from view of the main door. Francis hissed with surprise as Richard tore down the tapestry which hid the door from view. He opened it quietly, careful to ensure that little noise was made. The door opened to a small hallway which led to the throne room, if Francis could get there, he could hide under some bodies and when the invaders left he could escape. 

 

“You never said,” Francis muttered. 

 

“I never thought we’d ever have to use it,” Richard murmured back. They leaned against the wall simultaneously, both of their bodies ached beyond reason. “I’m not leaving this room Francis,” he said quietly. 

 

His friend stared at him from the corner of his eye. 

 

“Then neither am I.” 

 

Richard shook his head, bit down on his lip to muffle his sound of pain. He almost jumped at the sound of sudden banging on the main door. _Tudor._

 

“You should go,” he told Francis. “Hide. Save yourself.” 

 

“No,” Francis protested. “I’ll follow you to the end, Dickon. I’ll not leave you — I didn’t when you were suddenly revealed to be the pompous Prince you acted like —“ Despite himself, despite the blood on his sword and the death around them, the death awaiting them, Richard laughed. “And I’ll not leave you now,” Francis finished. 

 

Richard smiled, his eyes blurred with tears. 

 

“Gods, Francis,” he said lowly. “You’re the best man I’ve ever known, and a greater friend than I ever deserved.” 

 

Francis’s eyes were misty too, he realised. 

 

“Go,” Richard urged. “Please. If there is anyone in this city who deserves to survive this, it’s you.” 

 

“Richard, no —“ 

 

“Francis,” he begged. “I implore you, go. Save yourself.” 

 

The banging on the door continued, even louder this time. 

 

Francis’s eyes widened with desperation.

 

“Come with me,” Francis said.

 

Richard smiled now, remembered how he had said the same to Anne all those years ago. He felt his heartbeat slow as he accepted his fate, realised for certain that he was going to die. He looked at Francis, saw his friend was not going to leave him. He moved to the door, watched as Francis breathed a sigh of relief and entered the dark hallway, sure that Richard would follow — 

 

Richard shut the door before Francis could even blink, locked it to prevent his friend from entering the room once more. He heard Francis bang on the door, heard incomprehensible yells. 

 

“Forgive me,” he said, tears sliding down his face. “Forgive me.” 

 

He had said the same to Anne when their Edward died. His heart throbbed in his chest and he thought numbly of how Edward would never fight for his people like he did, would never know the true depths of friendship and the happiness love could bring. Edward would never have to face his enemies knowing he was going to die, and Richard felt a small pang of relief for that mercy. 

 

He knew not where Anne was and forced her out of his brain. She was on her way to the mountains, with the few hundreds of people he had managed to save. She was out of Tudor’s hands. If he thought of what would become of her if she was caught, he would surely lose what courage he still possessed. 

 

The banging on the door ceased. 

 

Richard took a deep breath, held onto his sword tightly and moved from behind the wall and stood in the centre of the room. He had known happiness in this room. Had made love in the bed beside him, had nursed wounds, had loved and hurt and cried and grieved. Now, he was to die in the room he had chosen all those years ago. 

 

Richard steadied himself, his breath caught in his throat as the door opened and Tudor strolled in. He needed to prolong their encounter as much as possible, give the few people who had escaped in the tunnels as much as time as he could give them. He looked at Tudor’s hands, noticed the lack of weapons. 

 

Men followed shortly after him and — 

 

“No,” Richard gasped. His heart was obliterated into a million tiny pieces. What little sanity and hope he had left was torn out of him. It felt like his heart had been ripped out of his chest. 

 

“Anne,” he whispered. Tears pierced his eyes as their gaze met. 

 

Her eyes were already tearful and swollen. There was a small cut on the side of her cheek, a bruise forming on the other. His eyes darted to the two guards, their grip on her arms. 

 

“Why?” he asked, unaware of anyone else. “You — you were supposed to —“ 

 

Speaking was a pain beyond endurance. 

 

She smiled at him sadly. 

 

“Together,” she said sadly. “You swore. Together. Always.” 

 

And his heart caught in his throat because of course she would remember that, would hold true to their vow even if it meant she’d die. For that was what they’d promised each other; that they’d face whatever the future brought together. As one. 

 

For they were one half’s of each other. 

 

“How touching,” Tudor said curtly. 

 

Richard’s grip on his sword tightened. 

 

“It’s funny,” Tudor continued, “How the wheels of fortune change. One goes up, one goes down.” His blue eyes locked in on Richard’s. “I’m going to destroy you,” he said quietly. “Your house has been destroyed, your city will burn to the ground. Your good name will turn to ash.” 

 

“You won this war due to treason and tricks,” Richard replied softly. “You have no good name to begin with.” 

 

Tudor smiled coldly, moved closer to one of the guards. He gazed around the room, as if committing it to memory. 

 

“So this is it,” he said. He turned to Anne. “This is what you left your home for. This is what you started a war for.” 

 

Richard smiled suddenly, his heart caught in his throat as he realised that while he may have lost the war, would lose his crown and his life, it was Tudor who had truly lost. 

 

“You’ll never love,” he told him slowly. “You’ll never have what we had. You’ll never love like that, not ever.” 

 

Tudor eyed him carefully, his expression cold. 

 

“My uncle is dead because of you,” he said suddenly. “My mother was left in disgrace — imprisoned. Uncared for. What little chance I had of love was ripped out of my life because of you.” He tilted his head, let his dark hair fall in his eyes. “But no matter. The Gods never forget, after all.” 

 

“There are many who wish your _beloved_ Queen dead,” Tudor continued. “As justice for the death of their sons and for her wanton ways.” Richard stiffened as Tudor brandished a knife, started to move towards Anne. “Mayhap’s I shall kill her first and then you —“ 

 

Richard lunged forward so quickly, so consumed by a protective urge that the world around him blurred. He was not aware of the pain of his wounds, only of the sword in his hand. He suddenly felt strong, felt as though he could fight his way through a thousand soldiers. 

 

One of Tudor’s guards tried to stab him, but Richard killed him within a blink — then there was another, and another, until most of the guards were dead and Tudor was right within his grasp, a mere sword’s thrust and then his shoulder, his _damned deformed_ shoulder was throbbing, aching with a pain that made him gasp and halt in his steps — 

 

“No!” Anne screamed, as a dagger found its way into Richard’s side. The sound that escaped her mouth wasn’t human, made Richard want to curl into a ball and cover his ears. Richard felt his sword drop the ground with a large _clang._ The pain in his side was endless, was unlike any physical wound he had ever felt. 

 

The guard stepped away from Richard as though he had suddenly been burnt. The dagger remained lodged in Richard’s side. Tudor’s eyes — which had grown to the size of apples due to his terror — gradually began to relax as he realised his foe was defeated. 

 

That his own body had betrayed him. 

 

“How poetic,” he murmured. 

 

He stepped closer to Richard, his grip on his dagger tightened considerably. Richard felt his body begin to grow numb with pain, could barely feel his limbs, only a ghost of pain in the shoulder that betrayed him when he needed it most. 

 

Anne had stopped making that noise, had now grown quiet besides small gasping sobs. He met her teary gaze, and his heart stopped in his chest at how beautiful she looked even then, despite all of it, despite where they were and what was about to happen. 

 

“I love you,” he managed to whisper through his pain. There was so much he wanted to say to her, so much he wanted to still do, but he had not the time, would never have the chance in this world ever again. 

 

Anne offered him a shaky smile, which quickly gave way to sobs as Tudor grasped his shoulder, steadied his knife — 

 

“I love you too,” she said, and then there was a pain in his chest and the world was fading, fading with a rush of blood and — 

 

Those were the last words Richard ever heard. 

 

xxii. 

 

Richard was dead. 

 

He was dead. 

 

Dead. 

 

Anne was tied to one of the columns to ensure she didn’t escape, or try to harm herself. So she stood there numb to all of the world. Nothing mattered. Nothing made sense. Dickon was dead. Her Dickon was dead. Dead. Dead. 

 

Anne shut her eyes. 

 

_Dickon._

 

_Dickon._

 

_My love._

 

She could only see his body — the blood that poured from his wounds. The lack of life in his grey eyes. He’ll stay like that, she realised. _No one will bury him. He’ll lie on our bed as food for the crows, his skin would rot and disintegrate and Richard won’t find peace._

 

Anne finally felt some of her pain seep through the numbness, and that was so strong she could hardly handle it. She could not. 

 

_Why?_ she asked the Gods. _Why give us hope? Why have us think you forgave us? Why be so cruel? Why?_

 

No one answered. 

 

Anne became aware of someone approaching her — to gloat or to taunt, Anne did not know. She lowered her gaze and — 

 

_Tudor._

 

The sudden rage and urgency that spiked in her heart made her back straighten. He was the one responsible for her husband’s murder. He was responsible for all of it. 

 

“You will be returned to Sparta,” he told her cooly. “You will remain under careful supervision by the people you abandoned.” 

 

Anne cared not about Sparta, or what would happen to her. She only cared for one thing: the one thing she could do for Richard. 

 

“Let me bury him,” she pleaded. “Please.” 

 

The image of his bloody, mutilated body was burned into her mind. Henry Tudor stared at her with no emotion in his eyes. 

 

“No,” he replied curtly. “The soldiers must see he is dead. So must the Gods.” 

 

_We’re blessed by the Gods,_ Richard used to tell her. _Aphrodite will never abandon us, my love._

 

That had been before their Ned had died, of course. Before their lives had been torn asunder. 

 

_Where are you now, Aphrodite?_ Anne thought. _Why make us love so strongly, so deeply, only to tear us apart?_

 

Henry continued to observe her coldly. She only realised it when he gained further proximity. 

 

“All of this death could have been avoided if you had only kept your legs shut,” he told her. 

 

Anne resisted the urge to laugh madly. _You know nothing of love,_ she wished to tell him. Nor would he ever. The realisation made her bitterness lessen, somewhat. As Richard said, he would never have what they had. He would never even come close to the joy they had experienced, however brief that was. He would never understand what it was to belong to someone else — to be made for someone. And then Anne was crying, silent tears of sorrow and endless grief because she had that, and now it was gone. Taken from her right before her eyes. 

 

Tudor left her without another word. 

 

It was sometime later that they untied her and escorted her to the Greek ships. Anne looked around her, but did not see the fallen city, the city that had been her home for ten years. That had sheltered her, protected her. She saw, but she did not comprehend. It was hard to move, with all the dead bodies that littered the ground. 

 

Eventually, they placed her by one of the ships. 

 

Anne gazed at the ruins of Troy. At the blackened city gates that once stood so tall, at the smoke that still lingered in the air. She could see the fallen bodies through the open gates — women, men, even children. Saw the blood that stained the ground. The same ground she and Richard had stood on all those years ago, when they first entered the city. When they were still young and hope still lit their blood on fire. When he was alive. 

 

Anne wondered whether or not she was dead. She was too tired to hurt — too tired to feel. Her body had yet to betray her tiredness or sorrow, but Anne knew it was only a matter of time. Her heart had died with Richard and their boy, their Ned. Strangely enough, she felt a flutter of pity for Margaret of Anjou, the mother in law she had never wanted. Remembered the emptiness in her eyes after the death of her son, a futileness Anne had never understood until now. 

 

Hands grabbed her roughly, shoved her up onto the deck of a ship. 

 

_Dickon kept his promise,_ she thought. _I’m not going back with Edouard._

 

And she laughed so bitterly, so brokenly, even the hardest of soldiers on the ship looked uncomfortable. Her guard leaned over and slapped her so hard she tasted something metallic in her mouth, and it was only when she raised her hands to her lips that she realised she was bleeding. 

 

Anne kept her eyes on the city, even as it grew smaller and smaller the farther they sailed. She remembered all of it; all the laughter, the love, the pain, the grief. The hope in their blood and the disappointment in their veins. But one thing rang true, however, despite everything. The words she once said to Richard echoed in her mind.  

 

Her time with him, in Troy, it was like for one brief, shining moment, the sun came out. 

 

— 

 

_End._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was the saddest thing I've ever written. I hope you guys enjoyed. 
> 
> Thanks again!


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